


Juniper

by gilded_iris



Category: IT (1990), IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Anxiety, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bipolar Disorder, Black Humor, Depression, F/M, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Juniper Hill, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Racism, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-04-17 00:38:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 119,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14176791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilded_iris/pseuds/gilded_iris
Summary: There was a saying in Derry, "When you finally lose it, they'll send you up to Juniper."---Eddie Kaspbrak is admitted to Derry Home Hospital's psychiatric ward on his eighteenth birthday and finds that inpatient care is nothing like what he has been taught.





	1. Prelude: Sugar Town

**Author's Note:**

> All trigger warnings will be kept in the end notes, so you can chose if you want to read them or not. Also, heads up, if this subject matter itself seems like it may be triggering, this may not be the fic for you. I implore you to keep in the mind the nature of the source material. My own writing is like King's in that it uses very explicit language and talks about very real, very bad things. If you felt uncomfortable reading IT, chances are, this fic would make you feel uncomfortable too.

 

# Chapter One: Sugar Town

 

 

"No! Eddie, no! You don't have to go with them!" Sonia screamed, grabbing at her son's arm.

The nurse stepped between them.

"Mrs. Kaspbrak, the ER doctor made the decision to admit him. He's going to be put on a 72 hour hold. I'm sorry, but legally, he couldn't go home with you even if he wanted to."

"He's just a baby! You're saying I can't take care of my baby? He's very delicate!"

"Ma'am, please. Your son is eighteen–"

"As of a few hours ago! He was a child when he was admitted! Do you hear me? A _child!"_

Sonia and the nurse continued like this for a few minutes longer, but Eddie lost the ability to make sense of their words. That had been happening a lot to him lately. Sometimes, when his mom was in one of her conniptions, or when the stress of life got too much, Eddie just sort of… checked out. He didn't know quite how to describe it and it certainly wasn't a conscious effort, but his brain would turn to a soft hum and outside noise would fall into simple auditory vibrations and nothing else. Right now, Eddie felt like he was underwater. Tears tracked down his cheeks, but he did not take notice. The entire world around him faded into the simple light green walls. It was almost peaceful. Almost.

"Mr. Kaspbrak?" he heard a voice say. "Mr. Kaspbrak?" it repeated. Eddie snapped back into reality. It was the nurse talking to him. He was still in the green room, but his mother was gone.

"My dad's dead," Eddie said in a small voice.

"I'm sorry about that. Are you ready to come back now? Mr. Kaspbrak, is that ok?"

"Mr. Kaspbrak is my dad. He's dead."

"Sweetie, I'm talking to you. Eddie Kaspbrak, right?"

"Oh." Eddie had never heard himself referred to as Mr. Kaspbrak before. To him, that name and title would forever belong to the his father. _Mr. Kaspbrak was such a sweet man,_ people would say. _Poor Eddie. It's a shame Frank died when he was so young. Do you think Eddie even remembers him? Now he's stuck with just that awful mother._ Eddie wasn't sure how he felt about being called Mr. Kaspbrak. "Can you call me Eddie?"

"Yes, of course." The nurse said. She did not smile, nor show any emotion at all. Eddie thought she smelled like egg salad.

There was a saying in Derry, "When you finally lose it, they'll send you up to Juniper." Juniper Hill was had been an institution for the mentally insane five miles north of Derry. It had become a terrifying legend that mothers would use to keep their children in line. If a child in Derry was acting out and the threat of coal in their stockings didn't work, they would be reminded of Juniper Hill: Home of the Crazies. Stories of padded cells and leather shackles and guards beating patients with rolls of quarters followed the warnings. If that didn't work, tales of lobotomies and electroshock therapy were thrown around until the kid straightened up. Sonia in particular filled her son with the terror of Juniper. _It's a very, very bad place, Eddie. That's where the sick little boys end up when they don't have a mother to guide them._ For Eddie, these legends were unwarranted. He never spoke out against his mother, but still, Sonia dangled Juniper Hill as a horrifying warning to keep her son complicit. Then, Eddie had his bad break. When his mother found him unresponsive in a quivering mess, she, for the first time, was truly terrified that her son would be actually sent to the asylum.

In reality, Juniper Hill had been closed in 1987 after a long deinstitutionalization campaign. As it so happened, many of the tales mothers told their children had turned out to be true. When the institution was shut down, three guards went to prison for abusing inmates. But the legend of Juniper lived on. So much so that even most adult in Derry weren't aware of its closure.

Today, the crazies of Derry were sent to the seventh floor of Derry Home Hospital.

Eddie stood next to nurse ready to crumble to the floor. They were still in the small room outside the ward. To Eddie, it was the last step in the normal world before the terrifying unknown in front of him. There were a few chairs, all unoccupied, and two elevators with access to the rest of the hospital. Then of course there was the door. It was a big door that filled the room with ominous energy. Eddie knew that it was really just a normal door, but the cameras in the corner kept him from truly processing that fact.

The nurse unlocked the door and Eddie followed her in.

The new room was much bigger. In fact, the new room was really a hall. The door to the old room closed again and the outside world was sealed away. On either end of the hall there were two doors, labelled _Ward A_ and _Ward B_ respectively. The rest of the rooms in the hall were labelled as well. The room they'd just been in was labelled _Visitor Entrance_. Eddie spotted doors to nurses' stations flanking either ward, a dining room, an exam room, a medication room, and to his horror, an isolation room as well.

"So, uh, this is it, basically," the nurse said. Eddie braved a look at her. She was probably around sixty or so. She wore glasses. She was stout. She looked annoyed. There was a yellow stain on the corner of her mouth. "There's two residential wards." She pointed to either end of the hall, then she indicated the left. "You'll be staying in Ward A."

"Wuh-wuh-what's the difference?" Eddie asked. He figured it was boys and girls, but he hoped that it would be age. He was terrified of being the only young person in the facility.

"No difference," the nurse said. "Just depends on what we have available."

Eddie wasn't satisfied with the answer but he didn't say so.

"Now, Eddie, you arrived at dinner time. All the patients are eating. Are you hungry?"

Eddie briefly glanced at the door to the dining room and was surprised to see people laughing inside.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not hungry."

"Ok, then. Let's get you all ready."

The nurse took Eddie into the exam room. She asked Eddie the same questions he'd been asked all night. _Why are you here? Are you planning on hurting yourself? Do you have homicidal thoughts? Do you have suicidal thoughts? Are you planning on acting on those thoughts? Do you have a plan for taking your life? Do you have access to firearms? Can I take your blood pressure?_ Eddie whispered short responses. He would occasionally hold his hand in front of his face just to see how badly he was quivering. When the nurse finished her questions, she had Eddie turn over his shoes. She explained that shoelaces were not allowed into the ward. She deemed the rest of his clothes – a t-shirt and laceless sweatpants, the clothing he considered to be his pajamas – to be safe. She reached into a drawer and handed Eddie a pair of bright yellow socks with rubber grips on the feet.

"What are these for?" he asked in a shaky tone.

"Since you can't have your shoes, you'll need to wear these. They're slip-proof."

Eddie took the socks and put them on. They were just big enough to be uncomfortable to keep on, but Eddie was too scared to complain.

"Now you didn't bring anything else with you, did you?"

Eddie turned his pockets out and showed the nurse his plastic blue pill container, a few dollars, some loose change, and his inhaler. The nurse pried the pill container from his hand and inspected it.

"You can keep the inhaler, but I'm afraid you can't have the medicine."

Eddie's eyes bugged wide. "I need my medicine. I _always_ take my medicine. If I don't take it, I could go into chemical withdrawal!"

"We'll give you all the medicine you need here. We don't have a way to verify the contents of your pill container, so we can't give it to you."

"That's crazy, they're my meds and I need them."

"I understand that. Now what are they?"

"Huh?"

"The meds you take. What are they for? I need the names and dosages."

Eddie didn't know the answer. His mother took care of it for him. She always had.

"I– I don't know."

"Right." The nurse sighed. "Well, we'll figure it out."

She printed a new hospital band for Eddie and attached a little plastic device to it.

"What's that?" Eddie asked as she fixed it around his wrist.

"A tracker." Eddie's eyes lit horror. "Relax, it's just so we can keep track of you." Eddie didn't relax.

The nurse took him out of the exam room and took him to the door of Ward A.

"Now if you ever find yourself in the hall, coming from group or a meal or whatever, you'll need someone to let you back into your ward. There are always nurses in here," she pointed to the window of the nurses station, "someone will come out and buzz you in. Most of the time, you'll be with a tech or a nurse anyway, so it shouldn't matter much." The nurse pressed her key card against the door to the ward, pushed Eddie in, and let the door close behind him.

And then he was alone in what he presumed to be a common area. There was a T.V. behind a large pane of plexiglass, some very uncomfortable looking plastic-lined seats, a sink with cupboards above it, and a table with a box of half-sized colored pencils and a neat stack of half-finished crossword puzzles. Beyond the common room was a long hall with what Eddie assumed to be bedrooms and a big whiteboard. He panicked.

"Eddie, come here." Eddie whipped his head around and breathed a sigh of relief. Behind him, next to the door, was the other side of the nurses station. Somehow he'd lost an edge of reality and for a moment, he had forgotten that there was a world behind him at all. The nurses' station overlooked the entire ward and the nurse who had taken care of Eddie was waiting at the counter. Eddie approached her.

"Now, this a list of all the things you brought with you," she slid a piece of paper over the counter to Eddie. "I need you to sign it so that we make sure you get everything back when you leave." Eddie nodded. According to the paper, these were Eddie's only earthly possessions: one pair of Adidas sneakers, one plastic pill container, and $6.72. He hadn't brought his wallet or his phone with him. Eddie couldn't remember the last time he'd left the house without his I.D. and he felt a strange sense of identity loss. It was almost liberating. Eddie signed the piece of paper. His signature looked like seismograph reading.

"Your room is 714," she said as she put away the paper. She handed him a folder, a paper jacket, and a paper bag. "This has a copy of all the forms and releases you signed in the ER as well as some general information. The bag has some toiletries. The jacket is so you don't get cold. If you need a change of clothes, you can come here and ask for paper scrubs. You can make phone calls whenever you like outside of mealtimes and group sessions." She pointed to a two phones attached to the wall parallel to the nurses' station. Then, she turned back to the desk and pulled out her half eaten egg-salad sandwich, apparently finished with the conversation.

"Uh, uh okay," Eddie stammered, but the nurse didn't look up.

Eddie felt his heart tighten. His hands went numb and clammy and he felt his nerves light up his spine. He forced himself to calm his breathing. _You can do this,_ he told himself, _you're an adult now. You can take care of yourself. You have to._

It took all of Eddie's bravery to turn away from the nurses' station and find his room, but he did it. The door to room 714 was open, as were all the other doors. Inside, Eddie found that there were two hospital beds on opposite sides of the room with paper tape dividing them. A new rush of panic went through him. The nurse hadn't told him he'd be having a roommate, but then again, the nurse hadn't told him much of anything. Eddie quickly decided which bed was his as the other was slept in. Somehow, his roomate had managed to make a mess out of the scant bedding. Each bed had a small bedside table grounded to the floor next to it and there were two matching shelves anchored to wall. To Eddie's relief, the room had a private ensuite bathroom. He set his folder on his bed and went inside.

The bathroom, like the one in the processing room in the ER, was built to prevent any sort of self-inflicted injury. The door had no lock and the toilet, sink, and small shower were all made of tough plastic. Eddie put his hands under the faucet and it gave him a weak string of water. There was no soap in the room, nor were there paper towels. He looked at himself in the mirror, but his reflection was warped by the foggy plastic surface. Eddie supposed that they weren't trusted with glass mirrors. _This is your life now, Eddie. Take it all in. It doesn't matter that you're still in Derry. It doesn't matter that beyond the windows of the place lays your home, your school, your whole life – you're in Juniper now, it doesn't matter what they say. You've gone nuts and now they've put you in Juniper. Didn't you see it coming? You haven't been an adult for even an entire day and now you're in the bullpen._

Eddie wiped his hands on his pants and took three deep hits from his inhaler. The sink was lined with his roommate's toiletries, all standard hospital issue, and he placed his own bag of products on the ground in the corner. He was determined to take up the least amount of room as possible.  

His breathing calmed a bit and he went back into his room. He looked at his roommate's things: a huge stack of comic books, a hastily folded pile of t-shirts and underwear, and the latest issue of _Rolling Stone._ There was nothing that said his roommate's name in the open and Eddie wouldn't dare go through his roommate's things to find out.

Eddie sat on his bed, careful not to disturb the anything and went through his folder. It was full of the documents that had sealed the fate of the next three days of his life. At the top, was a blue piece of paper signed by the ER doctor warranting involuntary hospitalization. Eddie couldn't help himself, he started to cry. Any sense of control he'd once had evaporated as soon as he'd crossed the threshold into the seventh floor. He found that he missed his mom and the very notion of wanting to be with her made him cry harder. He'd never felt so alone in his life. The nurse hadn't given him anything at all really. He didn't know what was expected of him, where he was allowed to be, who he was supposed to talk to... he was completely and utterly lost. He forced the tears to stop flowing and placed his folder on the table, nudging it carefully until it was in the exact center.

_Ok, Eddie. You've got this. You're here, you're handling things. You've got a bed, you've got your folder, you've got your shitty jacket, you've got your inhaler. So what if you don't have your medicine? You'll probably drop dead of some inexplicable disease before anyone even notices. No. Cool it. You're fine. Keep yourself together. You've got this._

He steeled himself, wiped the remaining tears from his cheeks and left his room.

 _Good! You made it back to the hall! There you go, taking the world by storm. Not pitiful at all._ The hall was still empty. Eddie wondered about the time, but found that there was no clock in sight. He nervously scratched at his hands. His skin was littered with healing lesions from where his anxiety had gotten so bad that he'd scratched the first few layers of skin off. He'd never thought it made him loony before, to him it was just a bad habit, but the ER doctor considered it to be self harm. _Breathe. Don't pick at your hands; don't give them a reason to think you're nuts._

Eddie busied himself by looking at a schedule taped to the whiteboard.

_7:00 a.m. Wake-Up_

_7:10 a.m. Hygiene Time_

_8:00 a.m. Breakfast_

_9:00 a.m. Group Therapy_

_11:00 a.m. Lunch_

_12:00 p.m. Group Therapy_

_2:00 p.m. Individualized Therapy_

_3:00 p.m. Personal Time_

_3:30 p.m. Group Therapy_

_5:30 p.m. Visitation_

_6:30 p.m. Dinner_

_7:30 p.m. Group Therapy_

_8:30 p.m. Snack_

_9:00 p.m. Private Hour_

_10: 00 p.m. Lights Out_

Although he'd been going nuts at the lack of structure so far, seeing the timetable struck a new chord of terror. The weight of inpatient institutionalization hit him. Seeing every second of his day planned out before him terrified him. Just hours earlier he'd been Eddie Kaspbrak, normal high school student, and now he was Eddie Kaspbrak, psych ward patient. His identity crumbled before him and tears started to flow unrestrained. He didn't care that he was only a few feet away from the cold nurse or that the other patients would soon be leaving dinner. According to that stupid piece of paper, he'd soon be forced into group therapy with them and then snack like a child. He could feel the schedule ebbing on a full-blown panic attack. He lost his grip on the floor beneath him and felt the room blur away again. And then he was grounded.

A strong hand rested on his shoulder.

"The sc-schedule is buh-buh-bullshit."

Eddie turned around to face a man that couldn't be much older than him. For the first time that night, he took an easy breath.

"I'm Buh-Buh-Bill. I know everything suh-suh-sucks ruh-right now, bu-b-but it guh-gets easier. I promise."

"Thank you. I'm Eddie," Eddie said as he sniffed away the last of his tears.

Bill gave him a beautiful, kind smile. His hair was a brilliant shade of red, but his complexion was tan. He was maybe half a foot taller than Eddie which made him around 6'1. Bill looked like the kind of guy you could fall in love with, stutter be damned. He wore a plain black long sleeve shirt and blue paper scrubs – Eddie figured they were the same kind that would be made available to him. On Bill, they didn't look all that bad. Something about the way he carried himself gave Eddie the impression of unrelenting cool confidence. _So how the hell did he end up on the seventh floor?_

"No puh-problem. Wuh-wuh-when I first g-got here, I cuh-cried a lot too." Eddie could tell that Bill was being genuine, but he had a hard time imagining the man in front of him having ever shed a tear. Eddie blushed.

"So, uh, is dinner over? The nurse told me that the other patients were at dinner. She asked me if I was hungry, but I said no. I lied though, I just don't think I could make myself eat, I'm so anxious. You could probably tell that though. I haven't stopped shaking since I got here. I'm terrified, to be honest. I've never really been away from home before and now all of the sudden I'm here and I can't leave and I'm barely an adult. I don't think I really count an adult, actually. I just turned eighteen today and I was actually born at nine o'clock at night, which technically means that I'm seventeen, but they put me in with the adults anyway. Oh shit, I'm rambling. I'm sorry."

"Yuh-you're ok," Bill laughed, "It's an overwhelming situation. And to answer your qu-question, duh-duh-duh-dinner isn't over yuh-yet. There's puh-probably still five muh-minutes or so."

"Oh," Eddie looked around at the still empty common room. "Why aren't you there then? I sort of assumed they'd make us go to meals."

"They're suh-supposed to, but the duh-don't enforce it too much. I thuh-thought I'd be better off enjoying the puh-peace and quiet."

"Is everyone else… you know…. crazy? I mean you're the first one I've met other than the nurse and you seem perfectly normal."

"Wuh-well first rule of psych wuh-ward is were all cuh-crazy. Cuh-crazy's a ruh-relative term. To the puh-people on the outside, there's suh-something about us that makes them thu-think we're lunatics, buh-but we're all puh-pretty much just human."

"Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound offensive or anything."

"It's okay, I know wuh-what you meant. There are suh-some people who have luh-less of a grip on reality in here, though. My advice is to treat everyone like you would anywhere else. Most people around huh-here are friendly; we're juh-just trying to guh-get our lives buh-back on track." Bill gave Eddie another smile that put him at ease.

"How old are you? Not to be weird, I was kind of terrified that I'll be the youngest by far, but you don't look all the much older than me."

"I'm tuh-tuh-tuh-twenty seven. You fuh-find that puh-people of all ages come here buh-but right now everyone's under forty. We even huh-have two other eighteen year olds. Ruh-Richie is in Ward A tuh-too. His roomate got duh-discharged this morning, so I'm assuming they put you with him."

"Room 714?" Bill nodded. "Yeah, I guess that makes us roommates. Is he nice?"

Bill looked over to the door to hall where the other patients were finally coming back from dinner.

"Big Bill!" A man with crazy black hair and a huge grin on his face was the first to saunter in the room. He was followed by a stiff-sort of guy wearing a kippah and a guy in an Alabama t-shirt. "You won't believe what our dear Bevvy did at dinner!"

"Ruh-Richie, you've guh-got a new roommate. His nuh-name is Eddie. He's eighteen tuh-too."

Richie scanned Eddie up and down before reaching his hand out for a handshake. Eddie took it hesitantly.

"Richie Toizer's the name. And who are you?"

"Like Bill said, I'm Eddie."

"Eddie Spaghetti! I love it already. You, my friend, are adorable."

Eddie frowned. The stiff guy rolled his eyes.

"Richie's a horny, manic mess. If he's ever being an asshole you can just beep him." Eddie couldn't help but notice that the guy had thick bandage wrapped tightly over both his wrists. He averted his gaze, trying not to be rude. "I'm Stanley, by the way."

Stanley nudged the guy in the Alabama shirt in the ribs.

"Oh, uh, I'm Ben," the guy said in a normal enough tone, although he didn't meet Eddie's eyes. "Nice to meet you."

"Thu-these are the rest of the A Warders," Bill explained. "There's not too muh-many of us right now, but B Ward is fuh-full."

"Why don't they just put more people over here then?"

Richie laughed.

"You're so new and innocent, it's adorable."

"Beep-beep Richie," Stan said. "You got here yesterday morning."

"And yet I've learned the ropes admirably fast." Richie sat down on the plastic-lined couch and smiled at Eddie. "Don't worry kid, you'll be just like us tomorrow. Humans are amazingly good at adapting to new environments and to be honest this place is like grown up high school. That's right kid, through a bunch of adults, no matter how old they are, into a situation with roommates and mealtimes and pretty soon you've got yourself a whole teenage zeitgeist."

Stan scoffed and started to tidy the little table with the activities.

"So why can't they bring the B Warders over here?"

"We're the depressives, they're the psychotics," Ben said. "At least that's what the psychiatrists say."

"Yeah, but everyone knows it really all about how you answer the questions," Richie said.

"The questions?"

"You know. _Do you have thoughts about harming yourself?_ You say yes, you end up in A. _Do you have thoughts about harming others?_ You say yes, you end up in B. So congrats, you're on the good side. The real nutjobs are always B Warders."

"Again, it's pertinent to note that Richie has only been here for a day and has no authority on the matter," Stan said as he finished organizing the colored pencils into a perfect rainbow.

"You got me there, Stan the Man, but I'll have you know this is not my first rodeo. I was admitted to the adolescent psych ward twice. We were roommates once, remember?"

"And is that really something to brag about?" Stan said, cocking an eyebrow.

"You're getting me off track–"

"You're getting _yourself_ off track–"

"Shush Stuh-Stan. Richie, what were you going to suh-say?" Eddie could have swooned over Bill. There was something about him that made him seem like a natural leader of men.

"Thank you, Billy! You always choose Stan's side over mine."

"Buh-back on topic, remember?"

"Right. Anyway, Eddie, the important thing to remember is that despite what the nurses say, there is a difference between the two wards and you got put in the right one. There's all kinds of crazy on the other side of that hallway."

"And this is why Bill always chooses my side," Stan said flatly.

"Buh-beep-beep, Richie." Bill looked at Eddie. "There are some people that you don't want to mess with in B, buh-but there's good people there tuh-too."

"Beverly's there," Ben said, looking up from a word search. "Mike, too."

"Exactly," agreed Bill. "You'll puh-probably be friends with them tuh-too. We all are."

"What about the others? You said there's people I shouldn't mess with?"

"The Bowers' Gang," answered Stan. "Henry Bowers is their creepy little leader. He takes the most vulnerable people in Ward B and pretends to care about them so they'll do his bidding. Belch and Vic are his followers right now, but they're not bad people."

"Are you kidding? Vic stole your kippah at dinner," Richie said. "Bill, you should have seen Bev. She went fucking off on him! Cursing about this, screaming about that. I honestly thought she was gonna lose it for real."

"Shuh-she didn't get puh-put in isolation, did she?"

"No," answered Ben. "She didn't actually hit Vic. But Richie's right, she came close."

"Yeah, well at least she got an Ativan out of it," Richie finished, laughing.

Eddie expecting for Stan to be shooting daggers at Richie and was surprised to find that he was smiling too.

"It was pretty great," Stan said. Eddie thought he had a beautiful smile.

"Group therapy time," the nurse announced.

Eddie watched as his new friends got up. Stan meticulously cleaned up behind them.

"Cuh-come on, it's tuh-time to muh-meet everyone else." Bill smiled at Eddie. "And huh-happy birthday."

To Eddie, the short walk across the hall to Ward B felt like a strange prison march. They were accompanied by a miserable looking medical tech and the A Warders, all dressed in some sort of hospital-issued paper regalia, looked like the inmates from Shawshank that would occasionally be doing road work in Derry in a chain gang. But they were laughing. _Laughing._ Richie and Stan were bickering again with Ben making an occasional quip. Bill stayed by Eddie's side, but Eddie got the feeling that this wasn't out of pity, but rather a sense of innate kindness and protectiveness. Eddie realized, that among the A Warders, he felt safe.

And then the tech ushered them into Ward B. To Eddie's surprise, it was nearly identical to Ward A – there was a common room in the same design of their own common room, there was a nurses' station, and there was a long hall with resident rooms. It was the mirror image of their own ward, only the plastic-lined chairs had been rearranged in a circle – presumably for group.

"Bevvie, darling, long time no see," Richie wrapped his arms around a girl bundled in a big hoodie. She had the hood up in such a way that Eddie figured it would probably be cinched such had she not been forced to remove the drawstring. "How's that Ativan feeling, my dear?"

"Stupid. Good. You know how it goes," she gave Richie an absent smile with heavy-lidded eyes. "You guys got a new person?"

"I'm Eddie," he said, trying to make his voice sound confident.

"Well, welcome to hell, Eddie." She said and took a seat. There was no humor in her eyes and something about the dead way she spoke made Eddie's blood run cold.

"Hell?" Eddie whispered to Bill.

"Oh, Spaghetti Man, don't let it get to you. This place is pretty good, Bev's just having an exceptionally shitty day," Richie said.

"Huh-he's right. Thu-this pu-place certainly isn't hell, bu-but there's definitely room for bad days."

Eddie watched as Ben broke from their little group and sat next to Bev. Her lips flitted upwards before she put them back in a straight line. Eddie could've sworn that for just a second, she'd smiled genuinely. She rested her hand on top of Ben's.

A guy in camo-print pants walked in from the hall with a large guy behind him. They took the seats farthest away from Bev, and camo-guy smiled at her.

"Thuh-that's Vic and Buh-Belch. Vic's the one in camo," Bill whispered to Eddie.

Another guy waltzed in. He opted for the paper pants like Bill, and the shirt he was wearing was a ragged red t shirt with the sleeves cut off. There was something terrifying in his stiff, unfeeling expression.

"Huh-Henry," Bill said under his breath. "It's buh-best just to keep out of his way."

"You say something, faggot?" Henry turned to Bill and walked right up to him, getting in his face and sizing him up. Henry was tall, and Eddie could tell from his well-muscled arms that he could probably beat the living hell out of any of them. While Bill matched him in height, he himself was rail thin. Despite this, Bill did not shrink away.

"Henry!" A woman coming from the hallway called. She was dressed in normal clothes – street clothes, as Eddie was quickly starting to think of them – and by the fact that she was wearing jewelry, Eddie figured that she was neither a patient nor a nurse. "Where's your roommate?"

Henry slunk away from Bill and turned to face the woman. "The nigger fell asleep. It's not my job to wake him up."

"Henry, we don't use the n-word here," the woman said with impossible magnanimity.

"Figures you would fucking say that, mulatto bitch. Niggers are always ganging up on the white man. It's always been that way."

"Henry," the woman warned. "You can't use bigoted language here. If you want to express your opinions, you can write them in your journal. This is a formal warning, got it?"

"Fine." Henry huffed and glared at Vic and Belch until they moved so he could sit in between them.

"Okay." The woman smiled. "Will someone get Mike?" She scanned the room. "And, oh, we're missing Patrick too."

A nurse standing in the corner by the phone spoke up. "I'll get them," she said.

A few minutes later, a black guy who Eddie presumed to be Mike, walked in with a tired expression and a smile.

"Sorry guys," he said.

He made his way to the other seat next to Bev, but stopped in front of Eddie and extended his hand.

"Hey, I'm Mike."

"Uh, nice to meet you. I'm Eddie." Eddie cringed at himself when he realized just how clammy he still was. Mike seemed unbothered though. He took his seat next to Bev.

Then another man, Patrick, came in with the nurse sent to fetch him. He had a smile on his face, but it was nothing like Mike or Bill's. Eddie couldn't exactly put his finger on what it was, but something about his smile was sinister, maybe even evil. Patrick lowered his eyes at Eddie and licked his lips.

"I would've come out sooner if someone told me I was getting a new pet," he whispered just loud enough for Bill and Eddie to here. The rest of the A Warders, Bev, and Mike looked at them protectively, as though they could tell he was saying something creepy. Eddie wondered why they hadn't warned him about Patrick.

"Cuh-come on, Eddie. Let's sit duh-down." Bill brought him to the circle and sat him between himself and Mike. Stan sat on Bill's other side and Richie next to him. Richie also had the unfortunate pleasure of sitting next to Patrick. Then there was Vic, then Henry, then Belch. The woman took the seat between the last of the Bower's gang and Ben.

"Ok," she said. "I'm Deborah, a social worker. Tonight's topic is anger management."

"Another brilliant choice!" Richie said. "Nevermind the fact that it is completely irrelevant to most of our situations and is thereby unnecessary for us to do as a group."

Stan and Bill beeped him.

"Thank you for sharing your opinion, Richie," Deborah said, still smiling. "I know anger management isn't completely applicable to everyone's situation, but it's a good skill to learn nevertheless." She paused for a second, as though she were anticipating sass, but none came. "Good! We're going to do some introductions. I see we have a new face, so let's say our names and share a little bit about ourselves. I'll start. I'm Deborah and my favorite color is purple."

It took Ben a second to realize that it was his turn. "I'm Ben. I go to college for architecture in California. My mom lives in Derry though, so that's why I'm here."

"I'm Beverly. That's all."

"I'm Mike. I work at the public library here in Derry."

_Okay, Eddie. Your turn. You can do it. Everyone here is super nice. Well except the racist asshole and his goons. And Patrick of course. What did you expect? You're one of them now. Gooble-gobble and all that shit. Oh God, you haven't said anything yet! They're gonna think you're a freak! No they won't, they're freaks too. Gooble-gobble. Okay, say something. Just your name and something about yourself. Tell them it's your birthday, that's something to say. No! Don't tell them that, it could get the whole group off topic and then everyone would focus on you, the group would fall apart, and it would all be your fault. Okay. Breathe. Now, for the love of God, don't say anything stupid._

"Uh, I'm Eddie. Purple is my favorite color too." _Nice going dumbshit, that isn't even true._

To his relief, the world didn't end once he'd finished speaking. No one laughed either. It was good, almost normal.

"I'm Buh-Buh-Bill and I'm a puh-puh-published author." Eddie looked at Bill with moon eyes. Every time Bill spoke, Eddie wondered more and more how a guy like him could end up in a place like this.

"My name is Stanley." Eddie swore he could here Henry whisper _'kike'_ under his breath, but Stan did a valiant job at ignoring it. "And I enjoy bird watching."

"Richie Tozier's the name, and let me just say I'm so glad to be with you fine folks. Luckily for you, most of you already know me, but our dear little Eddie Swaghetti just arrived, so let me sum myself up. I'm queer as a three dollar bill, bipolar as fuck, and despite what Dr. Deadeyes thinks, I'm not actually schizophrenic and when I talk about my voices, I don't mean the ones in my head, I mean my impressions. Oh, and purple is also my favorite color." He winked at Eddie, and for the first time, Eddie realized his new roommate was handsome. He wasn't classically good looking like Bill and he didn't have Stan's refined charm, but there was a certain something that Eddie couldn't place his finger on that made Richie undeniably hot. He felt himself blush.

Patrick didn't speak. He let that terrifying smile stay on his face until Deborah directed the next person to take their turn.

"My name is Victor, but you guys can just call me Vic and I'm a veteran. Afghanistan, Iraq, _and_ Desert Storm. You hear that? I'm a hero." Eddie was amazed that such a young looking man had already been in the military for so long.

Henry smiled when it was his turn and spread his legs in some weird power stance.

"I'm Henry and to quote the slut, 'that's all.' "

Bev shrunk further into her sweatshirt, a sour look on her face. Ben put his arm around her and she nuzzled into his side.

"Henry, that's enough," Deborah said.

Henry got out of his chair and stood to his full height. Eddie felt his pulse quicken.

 _This is it, Eddie! Henry's gonna go berserk. They're gonna have to inject him with something and big, scary men are gonna drag him away kicking and screaming. They're gonna throw him into that isolation room you saw!_ Henry clenched his fists and Eddie saw the veins in his neck strain. _Or maybe he'll go on a rampage before anyone can stop him!_

And then, Henry took a deep breath, let the tension fall from his body, and walked out of the circle. A tech escorted him to his room. Vic watched him leave with puppy eyes, but nobody said anything.

Belch silently refused his own introduction.

Deborah took the room again. "Ok, I know things got a little heated, but I just want to say that Henry perfectly exhibited our topic. We saw that he felt very angry because I had to scold him, and what did he do?"

"He remembered his surroundings and calmed him self down!" Vic answered eagerly.

"Correct. Now what are some other healthy ways to deal with anger? Bev, I heard you were angry at dinner, what did you to stop it?"

Bev rolled her eyes. "They gave me an Ativan."

Bill laughed a steady timber and Mike followed. Stan gave a grin and a barely-there-huff-of-air sort of chuckle. Richie's laughter was loud and boisterous. Ben's was soft, quiet, and a little delayed, but no less genuine. Bev laughed too, her cheeks regaining a bit of color. Eddie found that he too could laugh, in his own funny way. For a moment, they were just seven friends laughing together in circle over a sort-of joke. They could take this moment and bond over the way they were being treated like children and they could find humor together. Eddie he felt a sense of belonging he'd never before experienced. The sensation almost terrified him.

Deborah didn't think it was quite as hilarious. "Ok, Beverly, it's important that we take group therapy seriously, but you do bring up a good point. Sometimes we get so angry that we need to take medication to help us feel normal again. There's no shame in that, but we use therapies like this to try and make it easier for us to handle our anger naturally."

"Miss Deborah?" Vic asked. "Would it be alright if I took a moment to apologize? I was the one who upsetted Beverly. I was mean to Stan, so I'm sorry to him too. I didn't know his little hat was so important to him and I promise I didn't know it was clipped to his hair. I wouldn't have done it if I knew it was attached like that." Eddie was shocked by Vic apology and couldn't help but think that he wouldn't have dared had Henry still been in the room.

"Vic, that's very sweet. Beverly, Stan, would you accept his apology?"

The tension in Bev's eyebrows disappeared. Her expression made Eddie wonder if anyone had ever apologized to her before in her entire life.

"Yes. Yes, of course I accept your apology. Thank you," she said, subconsciously letting Ben hold her a little tighter.

"I accept your apology too," Stan said, straightening his kippah.

Deborah smiled with all her teeth. "Very good! See, this is conflict resolution at work."

"Can I say one more thing to Stan, Deborah?" Deborah nodded. Vic reached into his pocket and pulled out a nest of curly strands of hair. "Some of your hair came out when I grabbed your hat. Do you want it back?"

Patrick let out an ear-tearing roar of laughter. Eddie saw every muscle in Stan's body tighten and he could've sworn the man was about to cry.

"What? What's funny?" Vic said, a look of scared confusion on his face. "I didn't mean to hurt him, I swear."

Bill whispered something in Stan's ear that was too quiet for even Eddie to hear. Whatever it was, it soothed Stan considerably.

"I know you didn't mean to hurt me. It's okay, Vic. My hat is called a kippah and it reminds me that God is always above me. I'm not angry."

This resolution seemed to displease Patrick, who let his face fall into a hungry snarl. Vic stood up and handed Stan the ball of hair. Stan looked like he was trying to keep himself from throwing up, but he forced a smile and put the hair in his own pocket. Bill smiled to Stan with the same smile that made Eddie melt.

"I am so proud of all of you," Deborah said, her own smile unfaltering. Eddie wondered how long it took for someone to become as desentized as she seemed to be. "This is another great example of anger management! We just have a little bit of time left. Does anyone want to share a story about how they overcame anger?"

Vic beamed. "Once in Afghanistan there was a hedgehog of Talibani towel-heads running towards me. They killed my entire platoon. I was surrounded by the bodies of all my fallen brothers and I was so, so angry." Vic balled his fists. "I walked alone in the desert for days and I stepped on two landmines. Two! It was pain you could never imagine. But I kept going on. Finally. I came upon a village. I was still so angry about what those terrorist motherfuckers did to my brothers that I wanted to shoot everyone I saw. But I didn't. Vietnam was hell, but anger management got me through it." Eddie figured that it was no wonder that Vic was they way he was, anyone could go nuts after seeing so much war. _Wait, did he say Vietnam?_

"Wow. That was quite a story, Vic. We're all glad you survived." Deborah said, still unfazed. "I think we have time for one more story. Who wants to go?"

"I'll take the bait," Richie said, "although I don't think anyone could top Vic. Anyway, once when I was in high school, I was biking home from my friend's house. It was dusk, and Derry isn't well known for its great street lighting, so visibility was low. I'm riding pretty fast and all of the sudden this pizza delivery car comes from out of nowhere and hits me. Now it barely clipped me, so I didn't break any bones or anything, but I did get scraped up pretty bad."

"And that made you angry?"

"Well yeah, no shit. The guy came out of the car and he was sobbing. He couldn't have been much older than sixteen and it was obviously his first job. I was angry, sure, but I knew if I called the cops or whatever, I'd cost that kid his job, a lot of money, and maybe even get him sent to jail. So I told him that if he gave me the pizza, I'd call it square."

Deborah sighed. "Well I'm not sure if that's the best thing you could've done–"

"Yeah, but I got free pizza." Richie grinned. "And the end of the day, that's all that matters."

"Right. Well with that, evening group is over."

The A Warders stood up. Bev pulled Ben in to a hug and rested her head on his shoulder for a few moments. Ben smiled and handed her a piece of paper from his pocket.

Vic approached Stan and pulled him into an embrace. The nurse on duty perked up, but when she saw that Vic wasn't about to strangle him, she went back to her computer. Vic hugged Stan tight, dishevelling his shirt.

"I love you man," he said.

"Thanks," replied Stan as he pulled away.

The rest of the A Warders followed Stan's lead as the tech took them back across the hall.

"Oh my God," Stan let out a the biggest breath Eddie'd ever seen. He ripped the hair out of his pocket and threw it into a paper bag with trash in it. Eddie supposed they couldn't be trusted with real trash cans. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God." Stan rubbed frantically at his hands and ran to the sink, slamming the faucet to the hottest temperature. He wrung his hands under the stream of water. He gripped the edge of the faucet, turned the tap off, and desperately started grabbing paper towels and wiping up every bit of moisture from the basin. When he finished, he gripped the wet towels in his hands and shut his eyes tight. His whole body was practically vibrating with distress.

"Stanley, are you ok?" A nurse called from over the station.

Stan threw down the paper towels. Bill was quick to pick them up and throw them away, making a show of covering the hair at the bottom of the bin.

"Huh-he's alright, Sarah. Wuh-we juh-just had a stuh-stressful group."

"Is that right, Stan? Do you need Ativan?"

Stan opened his eyes, took a shaky breath, and came back to himself.

"I'm okay. No Ativan tonight."

The nurse accepted his answer, but kept her eye trained on them.

Stan carefully removed his kippah, clip and all, and placed it on their table next to his still expertly arranged colored pencils.

"Wuh-what are you doing?" Bill asked.

"Bill, I need you to do me a favor or else I'm going to have a breakdown and there going to have to sedate me."

"Anything, Stuh-Stan."

Stan clenched his quivering jaw.

"I need you to see if there's a bald spot. Don't lie to me, Bill."

"Uh-uh-okay." Bill carefully went through each of Stan's curls. Stan relaxed under his fingertips. "You're guh-good. There's only a puh-puh-patch guh-gone, buh-but it's smaller thu-than a my puh-pinky finger nail."

Stan sighed and carefully reattached his kippah.

"So, Swaghetti, how'd you like your first group?" Richie said, in an almost nervous tone.

"Is it always that…"

"Stupid?"

"I was going to say dramatic, but stupid applies too."

"Well, it's almost never that dramatic, but it is always stupid. You're just lucky they didn't give us worksheets." Richie turned his attentions to Stan. "Are you going to be okay?" he asked with the first genuine softness Eddie'd heard from him. That was the second time Eddie noticed Richie's attractiveness.

"I'm fine."

"So did Vic get messed up in the war?" Eddie asked. Richie tilted his head and quirked his eyebrow. Stan just rolled his eyes. "I mean he said he stepped on a landmine. Did that, I don't know, jumble his circuits?"

Richie laughed.

"You bought that shit? Vic's a nineteen year-old, JROTC dropout, Call-of-Duty wannabe. Whenever someone talks to him, he tells a different 'war story.' "

Eddie flushed with embarrassment. _Am I really that gullible? Of course you are._

"Don't let Richie make you feel bad. I thought Vic was serious until he talked about getting shot with a musket," Ben said.

"And the people who work him just let him say shit like that?"

"Vuh-Vic's a special cuh-case. They usually duh-don't go along with puh-people's delusions, buh-but they stopped correcting Vic awhile ago."

"Why?"

"He has the mental capacity of an eight year old," Ben answered.

"We think Henry's the only person to ever be nice to him, it's no wonder he got him to be his lackey," Stan added. "Lots of people taken to B Ward are really just mentally retarded or so far into psychosis that they might as well be. The police find them on the street, determine they're a detriment to others, and send them here."

"That's awful," Eddie said. He hugged his arms close to his body. "What about Patrick? He sort of freaked me out."

"Nuh-no one knows much about him. He hardly uh-ever spuh-speaks. Buh-best to stay out of his way"

"Good, he's such a creep," added Richie. "I can't believe I had to sit next to him. I swear to God he got a hard on when Vic took Stan's hair out of his pocket."

"Can we not talk about this?" Stan pleaded.

"Sorry, Stanny." Richie said. Stan started to rearrange the colored pencils. He was putting them in reverse rainbow order now.

After a few minutes, Eddie mustered the courage to speak. "Can I ask you guys a question? I don't want to be rude or anything."

"We hear all sorts of thing in here," Ben explained. "There isn't much you could say that would offend us."

"How'd you guys end up here?"

"Oh boy! Storytime!" Richie took a seat and beckoned for everyone to crowd around. When no one took the bait, Richie sighed dramatically and stood back up. "Ok, so like I said in group, I'm bipolar as fuck. I'm also ADHD, but that's just a fun fact, not actually relevant to the story. I was diagnosed as bipolar when I was only fourteen, the youngest person in all of Maine to get that shit put on their medical record. Anyway, I did inpatient twice as kid, that's when I met good old Stan the Man for the first time. I was the asshole who always refused to take his meds–"

"Was? Last I checked, you put your Lithium under your tongue last night and flushed it down the toilet when you thought nobody would notice," Stan said.

"Boo, Stan, boo. Nobody likes a busybody. I'm getting better, I swear it. Sometimes, I just don't want funtimes Rich to go away. Oh shit, was that me opening up? Someone right it down so I can show Dr. Deadeyes."

"Buh-back to wuh-what you were saying."

"Right. _Anyway,_ as dear Stanley can tell you, I've always had trouble accepting treatment. I've been in this great, truly fantastic, utterly amazing, horribly crippling manic episode for almost two months now, longer than I've ever been in one before. Mania's great and then it ruins your life by making you think it's a good idea to do stupid shit. I got tetanus from skating at the dump, had sex with my dad's best friend, did _way_ too much LSD, and quit my job. Then, I had sex with my boss and got rehired. Then, I had sex with his wife, and got re-fired. I was in a downwards spiral, and I knew I needed to get help."

"So you admitted yourself?" Eddie asked.

"Yes. Well, kind of. First, I had a come-to-God moment. I got my motorcycle, took her out to the country roads at 3 a.m., and revved her up to 80mph. And then when I thought I couldn't get her to go faster, I managed to bring her to 90. Then, I brought her all the way to 100." Richie gave a wistful sigh.

"And then what happened?"

"What happened? Guts and glory, baby. When I realized going 100 wouldn't satisfy me, I took a deep breath and went all out. _What exactly does that mean?_ You may be wondering. Well, I'll tell you what: I lifted my legs up, leaned back, stretched my arms out wide, and rested my feet on the handlebars. I'll never forget how it felt."

"Terrifying?"

"Not a chance. I felt alive. For the first time in my life, I felt really alive. _That's_ what was terrifying."

"What did you do after that?"

"Well, I calmly brought my feet down, managed not to crash, and took my baby back down to 55. Then, I drove myself to the hospital."

"And that's when you admitted yourself."

"Incorrect! That was my intention, but remember, I'm the guy who hides his pills under his tongue. I wanted to get help, I knew I _needed_ to get help, being on that motorcycle… going so fast… one wrong move and I would've died. But I also knew that if I admitted myself, I'd check myself out an hour later. So, I did the most logical thing." Eddie could practically feel Stan roll his eyes, but curiosity was consuming him.

"What was it?" he asked.

"I walked into the ER, went straight up to the triage center, and I told them I was gonna shoot myself in the fucking face. Bam! They brought me up here without another word. 72 hour lock-up and everything. Now I can't leave even if I tried." Richie crossed his arms with a satisfied grin. "And that's how you get shit done."

Eddie was almost impressed.

Before anyone else could take the floor with their own story, a nurse called for Eddie.

"Eddie? You have a visitor."

"A visitor?" he said, turning around confused.

"It's visiting hours," explained Ben. "If you get called back, it means someone came to visit you."

"Ben, you have one too," the nurse added with a smile.

A tech came and escorted them into the hall and to the dining room, which apparently doubled as a visiting room. There was a mini fridge in the corner and a coffee machine to the side. A kindly looking woman who looked a bit like Ben sat at the table furthest from the door, an older man who looked like Mike sat at the next table, and another tech was perched on a stool in the corner. Eddie, however, didn't notice any of this. His attention was transfixed on the large woman taking up the room and screaming his name.

And that's when Eddie lost his grip on reality for the second time that night.

 

* * *

 

"Yo, Swaghetti. You with us?"

"What? Huh?" Eddie looked around and found himself back in the common room with the A Warders surrounding him.

"There he is!"

Eddie looked up at Richie.

 _How the hell did you get here? Fuck. It happened again. Oh God, you can't remember anything at all. It's_ never _been that bad. You're not sane! You've been kidding yourself! The ER doctor was right to lock you up! You're more nuts than any of them! At least Richie had the good sense to bring himself here. You've been telling yourself you're normal, but you're not! You've just lost grip on reality! You're fucked! Really, truly, crazy people don't know they're crazy. That's what makes them crazy! Who said that? You heard someone say that before, right? Oh God! You can't even remember who said it! Can you plagiarize thoughts? Oh God! Oh God!_

"Eddie, you still there?"

 _Tell him you're okay! You can do that much. Just open your mouth and make the words come out. It's easy as pie! Except it's not easy because what if you say the wrong words and then they'll_ know _you're crazy? HA! Imagine that: a loony amongst the loonies! Ok. Calm down. You can do this._

"Eddie, you're alright," an unfamiliar voice said. Eddie saw that there was a nurse right in front of him. "You've dissociated, but you're okay."

_Dissociate? What the hell is that? Oh, get a grip, Eddie. You know what it is! It's something crazy people do! They're gonna get the straight-jacket now! Any chance you had at convincing them you're normal is gone for good. They'll never let you leave._

"Here, take this." The nurse handed him a paper cup with a fat white pill sitting at the bottom.

_Don't take it! Oh my God! This is it, this will go on your medical records forever! You'll never get a job, you'll never make anything out of yourself and you'll have to live with your mom until you die. Only, she'll die first, of course and then you'll probably die a few days later because you won't be able to work up the nerve to leave the house alone. Then someone will eventually find both your bodies: mother and son, dead. You'll never have a normal life and when they find your corpse the whole world will know you're just a pathetic mommy's boy._

"Don't give him an Ativan! He's tiny! It'll knock him out! We want him to be conscious for snack time. For God's sake, give him a chance to catch his breath!" Richie's voice sounded tinny and far off.

 _Catch my breath? Oh shit. Eddie. Remember where you are. You're not a rotting corpse in your mother's house. No. Wait, what if you_ did _die first? You're in a hospital! Do you realize how many germs there are here? How many illnesses? Diseases? Viruses? You're probably already sick and they're not gonna give you your meds. Oh my God, my lungs are closing. I can feel it! Oh my God, my face is turning blue, I just know it! What if they can't tell? They don't know you're asthmatic! They don't know that you've surely contracted some rare lung disease in the few hours that you've been here._

"Huh-he's guh-got an inhaler! I suh-saw him use it! He nuh-needs it!" Bill reached towards his pocket.

"Do not fucking touch me!" and _oh! That's your voice! You just cussed out the nicest person here. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

"Eddie, I need you to breathe or we're gonna have to sedate you. Can you hear me?" That was the nurse again.

"Yuh-yuh-yes," he choked out, sounding more like Bill than himself. "I hear you."

"Ok, I need you to follow me. We're going to breathe in..."

_Breathe in!_

"Breathe out…"

_Breathe out!_

"Breathe in…"

_Breathe in!_

"Good, now feel the ground beneath your feet."

_The ground! It's still there!_

"Now make eye contact with me."

_Eyes. Yes. Her eyes are blue. Blue is a nice color._

"Good. Can you tell me where you are?"

"Juniper."

"No, Eddie. Can you try again?"

"Derry Home Hospital. Seventh floor. Ward A. Common room."

"Very good."

"And what's the last thing you remember?"

"My– my mom. I need my inhaler."

"Do you have it on you?"

Eddie nodded. He pulled his inhaler out of his pocket and took three deep breaths. The nurse looked at him quizzically but didn't say anything.

"Alright, Eddie. Good job. How are you feeling."

_Feeling? Ok, Eddie, you can do this. You have the ground beneath you, the nurse's eyes in front of you, and four friendly people around you. It's okay. You've got this._

"I feel… ok."

The nurse took the Ativan back and smiled.

"Welcome back kiddo. My name is Karen, I'm a night nurse here at Derry Home."

"You're really good at calming people down."

"It's my job, sweetie. Now, I think it would be good for you to go ahead and get to bed a little early."

"Oh come on! We have a surprise–"

"Ruh-Richie, huh-he needs to rest."

"I'm okay," Eddie insisted. "I really am. I don't know what happened in between me seeing my mom and being brought back here, but I'm okay now. I promise."

"Are you sure?" the nurse asked.

"Yes. I'd like to go to snack time." Eddie internally cringed. Just a few hours ago, he'd been sneering at the kindergarten-like activity, but now he just wanted a fucking snack, goddamnit. He was famished. Who knew going crazy could make you so hungry? Skipping dinner probably didn't help.

"Alright, Eddie. I'm going to tell the tech to watch out for any signs of you dissociating again though. If it happens again tonight, we'll have to sedate you."

"Ok."

Eddie looked at the rest of the A Warders – his friends – and felt a blanket of comfort. Not one of them had an expression of fear or judgement or disgust. Their looks said _it's okay. We've been just where you are. Hell, we still are. But we've got each other and you're one of us now._

"So… uh, elephant in the room," Richie said, scratching at his ear. Eddie paled. _This is it! You thought you could get away, but no, Richie knows you're nuts._ "Are they going to have Oreos at snack tonight, because we had Fig Newtons last night and that is simply ridiculous."

"Beep-beep," Eddie said before he could realize he was the one speaking. Richie laughed and wrapped his arm around him.

"Oh, Swaghetti, I like you."

"Gross. Stop calling me that."

"Whatever you want, Eds."

Eddie groaned, but he felt no dismay. He felt good.

* * *

 

Their snack was served in the dining room. Just seeing the same room as his mother had been in made Eddie's pulse quicken. And then Richie rested his hand lightly on his shoulder.

_Remember your surroundings. You're here. The ground is beneath you. As long as the floor is still there, you'll be ok._

They all crowded around the same table.

"Do you think Vic's gonna show up?" Richie asked.

"Nuh-no. Henry never lets his guh-goons cu-come for snack."

The door to the dining room opened and Mike and Bev walked in, accompanied by a tech.

"Hey guys," Mike said. "Eddie are you okay? I noticed you kind of zoning out at visitation."

"You were there?" Eddie asked. _Of course he was there, dummy! You just didn't notice because you lost your grip!_

Mike laughed. "Yeah. My lawyer came to see me."

"He dissociated," Ben explained.

"Oh shit, that sucks. I was kind of worried for you. Your mom looks like she's a piece of work."

It was Eddie's turn to laugh. "That's one way to put it." _Going against your mom now, huh? She's the only person who will ever love you and you're letting people thinks she's bad._

"Get her off your visitation list," Bev said. "You have the right to refuse anyone you don't want to see. On my first night here, my dad tried to see me. The one good thing about this place is that you can cut out the toxic people in your life. As soon as I get out of here, I'm getting a restraining order against him. I don't know if your situation is that bad, but you'll be getting a social worker tomorrow. They can help you with things like that."

Eddie had never considered not having his mother in his life to be a possibility. He was scared that the notion didn't frighten him – it put him at ease.

"Thank you," he said. "You're a good person."

Bev laughed. "Yeah that's me. Beverly Marsh, person of the year. Welcome to the seventh floor. Seriously this time. I was in a bad mood earlier, but I want you to know you're not alone."

Eddie smiled. Bev and Mike dragged their chairs to the A Warders table. The tech looked at them with warning eyes, but didn't say anything. He was too busy arranging a sleeve of Fig Newtons on a plastic serving plate.

"So Eddie," Richie said, gaining the attention of the table. "Big Bill here told us a secret about you." Eddie froze. _What? What did he say? Oh you know! He told them you're nutso!_ Richie reached into his pocket and produced a piece of paper. He unfolded it and handed it to Eddie. In bright color pencil bubble letters, it read: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! The page was decorated with a mix of beautifully drawn birds and shitty cartoon faces. The back of the page was a half-finished crossword and the lettering was crooked and squished, but it was the nicest thing Eddie had ever been given.

"We made this for you when you were at visitation. Bill drew the birds from one of Stan's books. Happy Birthday, Swaghetti!" Richie said. He was followed by a chorus of cheers. Bev, Mike, and Ben were obviously as caught off guard as Eddie was, but they joined in without hesitation.

"How old are you?" Bev asked.

"Eighteen."

"Holy, hell, you're just a baby," Mike said.

"How old are the rest of you guys?"

"Luh-like I said earlier, I'm tuh-twenty seven. Ruh-Richie and Buh-Bev are eighteen, like you. Buh-Ben is tuh-twenty, Stan is tuh-twenty one and Mike is tuh-twenty six."

"Happy Birthday," he said. "My name's Dion and I'm a tech here. I work nights, so I'm usually the guy that gets to give you your snacks."

"And we love you for it!" Richie said. "Although we'd love you more if you gave us Oreos."

"Oreos have pig lard in them," Stan said. "At least Fig Newtons are kosher. At the adolescent ward, nobody cared enough to make accomodations. Thanks, Dion."

"You got it, Stan. And Richie, I'll see what I can do about getting Oreos for you."

Richie saluted him. "Thank you, kind sir!"

Dion went back to his perch on the stool. Eddie felt a rush of relief. It was harder to be scared of the techs when he saw one being so kind.

The tech put the platter of cookies on their table and gave them each a plastic carton of juice. Despite his earlier complaints, Richie shoved three in his mouth in under a minute. The tabled laughed at the sight of his.

"What?" he said, mouth still full. He picked up a few more cookies and offered them to Bill. "Have one Billy Boy. We missed you at dinner."

"Wuh-well like you, I huh-hate Fig Newtons. Unlike yuh-you, I stuh-stick to my principles."

"Ouch! You have slain me!" Richie said, falling out his chair. Dion shot him a look. "All good, my friend! I just have a flair for the dramatics."

"Welp, Eddie this is it. The six best people in the psycho bin," Bev said, grinning.

"Suh-seven were a cuh-club of seven now."

"Right, a regular losers' club," Stan added with an eye roll. Everyone at the table except for Ben laughed.

"I kind of like it," Ben said. "The Losers' Club. It works."

Richie clapped him on the back.

"They're ya go, Benny! The Losers' Club!"

Ben smiled. Eddie had noticed that all night he'd been the slowest to express happiness and seeing him proud of his place in the group made Eddie feel like he, too, belonged.

 

* * *

 

Back in the A Ward, the nurse distributed everyone's meds, sans Eddie of course. Richie made sure to make a big show of swallowing his Lithium, much to his friend's approval. Then, they started to head off to bed. Ben and Stan, who Eddie learned were roommates, were the first to go. When they did, a bright green light flashed. Eddie looked up and found that there were two nearly identical, siren-style lights on the ceiling, one green and one red.

"What the hell does that mean?" he asked, hands starting to shake again.

"Who the fuck knows," Richie said. "It's one of the great mysteries of the psych ward."

Bill laughed. "Ruh-Richie, yuh-you've buh-been here for over tuh-twenty-four hours now. Stan, Buh-Ben and I were all waiting for yu-you to ask." He turned to Eddie. "The fuh-first time the lights went off wuh-when he got here, you shuh-should've seen the look on his fuh-face. We fuh-figured you duh-didn't want to sound stupid by admitting you duh-didn't know what they meant."

Richie looked dumbfounded. "What? I am shocked and appalled at your behavior, Billiam. "

"Anyway, fuh-for both your sakes, guh-green means suh-someone entered their ruh-room. That's the muh-main reasons for the trackers, other than tuh-to make sure we duh-don't leave."

"What's red?"

"It muh-means someone's guh-going into someone else's room. If yuh-you have a roommate, it also guh-goes off if yuh-you cross into each other's sides."

"Damn!" said Richie. "And here I was thinking that we could all bump uglies without getting caught!"

"Ignoring what Richie said, is there anything else I should know tonight?"

"Oh, I can answer that one. We can't close our bedroom doors and every fifteen minutes, a big dude comes in and watches you sleep."

Eddie felt himself panic, but stopped it. "Har, har. Very funny, Richie."

"Huh-he's actually not lying. Buh-but it's not scary. A tuh-tech juh-just cuh-comes in, takes notes, and luh-leaves. You guh-get used to it." Bill stood up and tucked his chair in. "Guh-goodnight Eddie. I'll see you buh-bright and early. 7:00 a.m. wuh-wake up it one of the few things they actually duh-do according to schedule."

"Night, Bill. Thank you for everything," Eddie said, smiling as Bill retreated to his single room.

Richie and Eddie laughed as the green light flashed again.

"You've got it, don't you?" Richie asked once they were alone, sans nurse of course, but Eddie was quickly learning to ignore the constant observers.

"Got what?"

"A crush, obviously. On Big Bill."

"I do not!"

"Don't worry, Eds. All of us have crushed on him at one point or another. I spent my first hour here yesterday flirting with him."

"Really? You sort of seem to flirt with everyone."

"I wouldn't lie to you, my dear. And I definitely am a flirt, guilty as charged."

"So is Bill… you know… gay? Henry called him _that_ word."

"Henry calls all of us faggots. Word is that Bill had a girlfriend when he first got here, but she broke up with him over the phone the next day."

"That's awful. Wait, how long has he been here? They don't keep you longer that 72 hours, right?"

_It's a trick Eddie! They lied when they said 72 hours! They're gonna keep you here forever._

"Well, they can only keep you on involuntary hold for 72 hours. If they try to keep you longer, you go to court."

"Court?" Eddie froze. _Of course there's court! You're crazy, they can't just let you go!_

"Don't worry, Eds. You'll be out of here in no time. As far as I can tell, you're just going through a tough time. They don't keep people like you here very long."

_If he knew how crazy you were, he wouldn't be saying that._

"Do you know how long the rest of the Losers have been here?"

"Well, this is day two for me. Day three for Bev, but she's got court tomorrow. Uh, I think Stan's been here for a week, but he decided to stay, no court order needed. Unfortunately for him, he wears his reason for being on his sleeves. Literally. But enough about him, I'm sure you've noticed his bandages. Ben got here three days ago. He's supposed to be discharged tomorrow, they aren't taking him to court. Mike's been here for four days, but that's a whole nother story you'll have to ask him about. I'm not sure about Patrick or Belch, but Henry's been here for a long time. Vic got here a week ago, court ordered him to stay twice now. But most of the time, people are in and out. People like you come in way more than you think and are out just as quick. No sweat."

"What about Bill? He seems normal. Is he getting out soon?"

"I was kind of hoping you wouldn't ask. He's a special case."

"What do you mean? Has he been here for awhile? A week? Oh God, I don't know if I could take a whole week. 72 hours seems like forever."

Richie sighed. "Billy's been here for 72 _days._ I think he said he's on day 81 at breakfast."

Eddie felt ice in his veins. _See! Bill's just a regular guy with a bit of stutter. If they can keep him prisoner, what do you think they'll do to you?_ Eddie wrapped his hands around his inhaler.

"Are you kidding? Oh my God. He's so normal!"

"Bill's got his own demons. He's an open book though. He won't get offended if you ask."

"Oh, ok."

Eddie went to bed after that, he saw his own green light go off in the corner of his eye.

Richie didn't come to bed until two hours later, three hours after the scheduled 'lights out.'

Alone in bed, Eddie let himself cry. All the fear and tension of the day flowed out of him with the tears. It would have been cathartic had the nurse on duty not been making rounds every fifteen minutes, but as Bill promised, it wasn't scary. When Richie finally crawled into his own bed, Eddie breathed just a bit easier.


	2. Act One, Scene One: I Wanna Be Sedated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie has a crazy day, quite literally

# Act One, Scene One: I Wanna Be Sedated

 

_GOOOOOOOOOOD MORNING RICHIE!_

Richie woke up at five a.m., although he did not know it. In Ward A, there was only one clock and it was placed in just the right corner of the nurses' station to be unreadable to the patients. Richie shot out of bed and walked across the room, carefully avoiding the dividing line between his and his roommate's living space. After figuring out the red light, he was determined not to make it go off.

_Good behavior! Look at that! Richie Tozier for the win. No more problems for you. Smooth sailing from here on out. No more causing trouble. You took your meds and everything! Good job! You're a winner._

He walked up to the window in the corner of the bedroom and put his hands on the glass. The blinds were drawn, as they always were. Richie desperately wanted to rip them open and check to see if the sun had started it's ascent over the horizon, but he couldn't. On the seventh floor, every window had blinds on the opposite pane of glass and were run by machines that could only be controlled by the nurses.

 _It's a fucking prison, Rich. What'd you expect? Nice going getting yourself locked up! No. No more of that. You're here and you're getting help, remember? Good boy. Oh Christ, you need to stop calling yourself 'good boy' this is_ not _the place for kinks. Okay. Now what were you doing? Oh yeah! The blinds! The sun! Where's the sun?_ Richie groped around the edge of the window, trying to figure out a way to try and trick the mechanism into opening the blinds.

"Richard? What are you doing out of bed?" A tech walked into the room for his fifteen minute round. _Shit._

"Funny story! You know the way this hospital likes to control sunlight?" _Oh way to go, Rich. If you put it that way, it sounds crazy. Nah, you're okay. He gets it._

"What?" the tech cocked his head.

_Shit, he doesn't get it._

"The blinds! We can't open the blinds so when we wake up we don't know what time it is and all the sudden we've gotta hop outta our beds and go up to the window and then a guard walks in and it looks like your nuts." _Nice save._

"Alright, Richard. Have you been taking your meds?"

Richie's face fell.

"Am I really that manic?" he asked.

The tech laughed. "You're the most manic kid I've seen all month, and that's saying something around here!" _Gee thanks! How's that supposed to make me feel?_ "Get back to bed. And we're called technicians, not guards." _I know that, idiot. I was making insightful commentary on the parallels between this place and prison! Does this guy even know how smart I am? Does anybody?_

"I don't want to go back to bed. I'm up now and I want to stay up." _and up and up and up!_

"I can't force you to sleep, but you can't leave your room until 7:00. It's 5:00 now."

 _What a piece of shit! Does this guy realize that I'm not fucking crazy? Well I am, but if this wasn't a psych ward, he wouldn't be looking at me like that. If I were_ normal _he'd understand my frustration._

"I wasn't planning on leaving my room. I like to shower this early. I do it all the time." _There, good job Rich. You put him in his place, for sure._

The tech sighed, alright. I'll leave you to it. He left the room, leaving door cracked a couple of inches.

Richie let out a low whistle and scampered back to his side of the room. He caught a glimpse of Eddie sleeping. The anxiety that had lined his roommate's face the night before had slackened in his sleep. Richie thought the way the light from the hall hit the highpoints in his bone structure was sort of beautiful. Richie wondered if he'd be up for an good old fashioned handjob when the guards weren't watching. _Oh God! Get a grip Richie! You can't just think shit like that! This is the reason your here! Ok, ok, ok. Stop thinking about sex, starting_ now! _There, you're cured!_ Eddie turned over in his sleep and Richie felt something stir in his groin. _No, no, no! Boo Richie! Beep-fucking-beep! He's here to get better, not to fuck you. You're here to get better, not to fuck him. So don't fuck it up, okay? Alright, take two: no more sexual thoughts about your adorable roommate. Starrrrrtttting_ now! _Hooray! You did it!_

_Ok, Rich. Back on track. What were you doing again? Oh yeah! A shower!_

Richie waltzed into the ensuite. The bathroom was both Richie's favorite and least favorite place in the ward. It was the only place a patient could go and truly be alone just for a of minute. Sure, the knob didn't lock, and there was a six-inch gap at the top of the door, but hey, that's life.

Richie stripped and threw his clothes into the corner of the room. He looked at himself in the blurred break-proof mirror. _You, Richie Tozier are a mess. Look at your hair! Have you ever used a comb? Ok, you don't need a comb, your hair is amazing the way it is, give yourself that much. And hey, wasn't it Mr. Johnson who said watching you tousle your hair made him horny? Or was it his wife? Fuck! Stop this! No more sexual thoughts. None. You can do it. No more bad choices for Richie Rich._

He looked at his bicep's foggy reflection in the mirror. A large, poorly executed, hand-drawn tattoo looked back at him. _Oh and speaking of bad life choices! You got too high when you were sixteen and let a guy named Moose do that to you at a party._ He traced the tattoo with his fingers. It was of a large, green woman with ten arms – a screaming decapitated man in each. In her mouth, she had a man being eaten alive. She was shirtless and _God, what did Moose say she was supposed to be? The Goddess of Death? Real smooth Richie. She's supposed to be Kali, remember? You're smart, you've read books. The Hindu goddess of death is Kali, you_ know _that. You used to be obsessed with the idea of Kali – death and sex, I mean who wouldn't be? No, you're a lying piece of shit. You don't know anything about Hinduism other than what Moose told you when he did the tattoo, and he wasn't even Hindu!_ Richie rubbed his thumb over Kali's vicious face. _She is pretty neat though._ Richie finger-gunned his naked reflection.

He grabbed the hospital-issued bottle of all-in-one body wash, shampoo, and conditioner and stepped into the shower. It was tiny and smelled like antibacterial soap, but Richie liked it. Just for a second, he could contain himself in a little place he could call his own. The water pressure was shit and the shower head ran on an automatic timer that kept stopping, but the water was warm, so that was nice.

_Way to appreciate the little things! You're doing great. And just look at your crotch! Almost completely flaccid! Heightened libido? Not me. Sex addiction? That's ridiculous. Those psychiatrists don't know you at all. Only Richie knows Richie._

Richie got out of the shower, stood in the middle of the bathroom dripping water, and immediately realized that he didn't have a towel.

_You, sir, are an idiot. Nah, don't be hard on yourself. This place is to blame. No one gave you a towel, it's their fault. Oh well. The nurses' station should have one._

Richie laughed at himself, pulled his paper pants over his wet legs and rushed out of the bathroom, out of the bedroom, and down the hall, leaving a trail of water in his wake. The tech caught him before he could make it to the nurses' station.

"Richard? What are you doing? Why are you running around the ward wet and shirtless? I told you not to leave your room."

"See, the thing about that is I took a shower like I said that I would and wouldn't you know it I didn't have a towel! You know my mom brought me all my stuff yesterday but I guess she forgot to bring a towel because when I was in psych wards as a kid they always gave us a towel when we were admitted but I guess you gotta ask to get one around here."

The tech sighed and scribbled something on his clipboard. _Aw damn. Now Dr. Deadeyes is gonna get this idiot's report and I'll look so stupid._

"Aww, you don't have to write that down," Richie said, pouting his lips. _Don't try to seduce him! Don't try to seduce him!_ "I'm sure I can make it worth your while if you erase it." _Dammit, Richie!_

"Go get a towel and get back in your room. I'm putting the fact that you attempted to bribe me with sex acts in your notes. If you do that ever again, I'll tell them to revoke your visitation time for tonight."

_Double dammit! Mom's coming tonight. You've got to be there for her. Behave._

"Got it, captain."

When Richie returned to his room, towel wrapped around his shoulders, he heard a sniffling noise from the other bed.

"Swaghetti? Is that you?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer. Eddie turned to face him. Tear-tracks reflected the hall lights.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to bother you– wait are you not wearing a shirt?" Eddie stopped crying for a second and laughed. Richie's heart jumped.

"So, funny story, I took a shower without realizing I didn't have a towel so I had to run go get one." Richie explained.

Eddie sat up in bed and flicked on the light next to him. When he saw how wet Richie was, he laughed again.

"I get it," Eddie said. "I guess it's sort of like when you go to the bathroom and realize you don't have any toilet paper."

"Exactly!" _He gets it!_

Eddie yawned and rubbed his eyes. _Oh God, don't notice his sleep tousled hair! Bad Richie. Down boy._

"What is your tattoo supposed to be?" Eddie asked, squinting to see it in the dim light.

Richie laughed, put his towel on his bed to sit on. He was still wet and shivering and the hospital-issued pants clung to his legs in an entirely uncomfortable way, but he hardly noticed.

"This, my friend, is Kali. She's the Hindu goddess of death. At least I think. I got it when I was sixteen and on a bender. I know it's shit. Just one of my many regrettable life choices." Richie traced the fuzzy faded lines.

"I like it," Eddie said far too quiet for Richie to hear over his own thoughts.

"I was at a party and this guy said he bought a tattoo gun of Craigslist. My dumb ass was the only one to volunteer to let him practice. He did it in the bathroom of a trailer and we used cheap tequila as a disinfectant."

"Oh my God, do you know how unsanitary that is? I mean weren't you worried about getting tetanus or a staph infection or that he would hit an artery with the needle? I mean shit, what if you woke up the next day and it was all scabbed over and oozing pus?"

"Oh Swaghetti, your concern is sweet. Yes, I guess those were all possible, but my mind was tickering way too fast to think about consequences. And it turned out alright! Well, I didn't get sick anyway, just stuck with a really fucking awful, probably offensive tattoo."

"I like it," Eddie repeated a bit louder.

"Ha ha ha."

"I'm serious." Eddie got out of bed and went to sit next to Richie before remembering the red lights. He sat at the edge of his mattress so they were at least face to face. "I think it's beautiful." Richie scoffed. "I mean aesthetically it's a shit show, I'm not gonna lie and you probably shouldn't get a tattoo about a religion you clearly know very little about, but I think it's beautiful anyway."

Richie was intrigued. "How so?"

"I don't know. I mean if she's a goddess of destruction doesn't that also mean she's the goddess of new life? It's like when farmers use slash and burn. At the end of the season, once they've harvested all their crops, they burn the whole field. It clears the field, sure, but something about the fire itself, or the ash left behind I guess, but it nourishes the Earth. Like once the fire rages and destroys all the crops, it leaves room for new beauty in creation. I don't know much about Hindus, so I'm probably wrong, but I like your tattoo. It suits you."

For the first time that morning, Richie's mind was quiet.

After a while of silence, Eddie laughed nervously. "That sounded stupid, didn't it? God I'm sorry–"

"That's was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

"–sometimes I start talking… Wait. Did you say it was nice?" Even in the dim glow of the small light, Richie could see clear as day that Eddie was blushing.

"Yeah. Thanks. Most people just say it's proof that I'm an idiot."

"I don't think you're an idiot at all. Hyper, sure. An asshole, probably. But you're not stupid." _He gets it he gets it he gets it he gets it!_ Richie's mind ran like ticker tape. "Now," Eddie continued, "please go dry yourself off and put a shirt on. I'm going back to sleep."

* * *

 

At what was probably eight o'clock going off what the techs said, Richie walked up to the nurses' station.

"Hey, Diane," he smiled to the nurse on duty. "Could I have an Ativan?"

"No."

"Oh come on! That's the best part of this place! You get thirsty, the nurses bring you water. You get antsy, the nurses bring you Ativan. You hand it out like candy around here."

"The fact that you said that is precisely the reason I'm not giving you Ativan. We only give it to people when we determine they need it."

Richie groaned.

_Look at her, she thinks you're an addict. She doesn't respect you at all. Well, Diane, fuck you too. You may be on one side of the nurses' station and I may be on the other, but you and I, we're the same._

* * *

 

Richie watched Eddie's face as he looked at his breakfast. It was screwed in a sweet state of disgust.

"Welcome to your first institutional meal!" Richie said, taking a bite of his instant eggs.

"What even is this?" Eddie asked looking at his plate of brown mush. He looked to the rest of the Losers' plates. At least they all had something that looked like food. Ben put a spoonful of a cereal and gave Eddie a sympathetic look.

"You missed getting a menu last night. Everyday at dinner they give us a menu so we can choose what we want. Nothing's all that good, but hey, it could be worse. For today, it looks like your stuck with mush," Ben said.

"Yuh-you can have my food," Bill said switching his plate with Eddie's.

"Oh, I couldn't," insisted Eddie, even as he looked at the plate of toast and sausage with hungry eyes.

Bill laughed. "It's okay, ruh-really. Wuh-we switch fuh-food here all the time."

"The way I see it," Bev said, "is that we get three square meals a day here. No ifs and buts about it. All we have to do is show up to meals and a tech puts a hot dish in front of you. On the outside, that isn't a guarantee. I'm thankful."

"Speaking of the outside, are you ready for court Miss Marsh?" Richie asked as he took a sip of decaf. The hospital wouldn't let him have regular coffee. _Oh get off it, Rich. It's for the best. No more stimulants for you! You're a new man! No more drugs, no more alcohol, nothing – not even caffeine. You're getting your life on track._

"I'm ready, alright. I shouldn't have been put in here in the first place," Bev said as she polished off the last of her waffle. "My aunt is going to show up and tell the judge that she's going to let me live with her. My psychiatrist said that all my problems are situational and my social worker agreed. As soon as I get out of here, I'll move into my aunt's place in Portland and start taking classes at the community college over there."

"Look at you with your plans for the future! Be sure to tell the judge that, they eat that shit up."

"Thanks, Richie. Got any other tips?"

"Oh, you know I do. The most important one is to say no to the question. No thoughts of harming yourself or others, that's priority number one. If they can't determine you're a threat, they can't keep you here. Everything else just helps your case." Eddie watched Richie closely as he talked. _He's looking at you! He likes you! He understands you! Maybe you should try for that handy after all. What? No! Bad Richie. Bad bad bad. He's just listening because you're sharing good info about the whack legal system._

"Don't take what Richie says too seriously," Stan said. "You should answer every question honestly. If the judge determines that you need to say, it's probably the right decision."

"Thanks Stanny," Bev said with a smile. "Since this is probably the last time I'll be seeing you guys, I just want you to know that meeting you has been the best thing that could've happened to me. I hate this place and I hate that they put me in here, but having the ability to talk candidly about the things I've been through… that's invaluable. You guys made me feel normal." The Losers all had bitter sweet smiles. "And you, Eddie, I know we didn't really get to know each other, but I was in your position a few days ago. You already know how I feel about this place, but take your time here as an opportunity. Talk to your social worker, talk to your psychiatrist. Be as honest as you can."

"Thank you, Bev." Eddie smiled too.

"And Benny!" Richie said, turning to his other friend. "Are you ready to get discharged?"

"You have no idea. I'm ready to get back to school in California, but my mom wants me to stay in Derry and take the rest of this semester off."

"Are you gonna do that?" Bev asked.

"Yeah, I think I am." Ben looked at her and smiled. "I'm gonna focus on self-care. When I go back, I want to be on the right track."

"How'd you guys meet, if you don't mind me asking?" Eddie asked. "I mean you two act like you already know each other, are you dating?"

Bev laughed. "We're just friends and we met in here. When I got here, it was in the middle of group therapy. I was a sobbing mess, but they made me go anyway. Ben sat next to me and let me cry on his shoulder. He'd only gotten here a few hours before me, so we bonded over that. He introduced me to the rest of you A Warders."

"Are you gonna meet up on the outside?" Stan asked.

_Aw, Stan! Don't do that. You know people always say that their gonna stay friends when they're trapped in here. In the loony bin, you're forced to bond and all the sudden you think you have the best friends you'll ever know. You tell them your fears and your pains and your demons and they tell you theirs. You exchanged numbers and email addresses and social media accounts. You say you'll visit your friends who get out later than you. And then your discharged. You go back to the real world and you never call each other. Stan never called me. But that's okay! I didn't call him either. That's just how it happens. Now be quiet Stan. This is their first time and they're both normal. They'll never come back. They're visitors in our world. They think they love each other because they needed each other for seventy two hours. They'll leave now. They'll go back to their lives and they'll be happy. And you'll never hear from them again._

"Yes," Ben and Bev answered at the same time.

"We're going to visit you guys too," Ben said.

_Say something Rich! They're being stupid. No. Don't. It'll just make them sad. No more ruining people's lives. But you didn't really ruin anyone's life, did you? No no no. Not you. Never you._

"To finding love in a hopeless place!" Richie said loud enough to drown out his thoughts. He lifted his plastic bottle of apple juice and clinked it against six more identical bottles.

"Ben?" A nurse peered into the dining room. "You're ride's here, sweetie. It's time to get you discharged."

The table cheered.

"Runaway, piggy!" Belch hollered from the otherside of the room.

"Get your fatass out of here!" Henry yelled. Vic laughed.

Patrick, sitting alone in the table closest to the window, winked in Ben's direction.

_What a fucking creep. This is how low society thinks of you. They lock you up with him. You're not like him. Not at all. All he does is sit and smile. If mom thinks I'm a mess, she should get a whiff of him! Does mom look at me the way I look at her? When she visits tonight, tell her you love her, for God's sake. Tell her you're sorry._

Ben stood up and reached into his pockets. He pulled out six slips of paper with each of the Losers' names written in the shitty colored pencils from their common room. Richie didn't miss the fact that Bev's was written in red when the rest were in blue. _Looks like he's falling deep. Who knows, maybe he and Bev_ will _meet up. They're responsible. They can be loved._

"Toodle-oo and good luck, Benny!" Richie said, kicking himself from his chair and enveloping Ben in a hug. _Tell him something nice. Tell him something meaningful. He's leaving and he'll forget you in a week. You need to say something and it needs to count._ "Seeya later, alligator." _Nailed it._ Richie caught Eddie smiling at him in the corner of his eye. "And you too, Bevvy. Who knows when they'll scoop you up for court." He pulled her into a hug too.

* * *

 

At what might have been one in the afternoon, Richie approached the nurses' station again.

"Hey, Cindy," he said to the nurse on duty.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked with a smile. _Cindy's nice. She gets it._

"Well, not great. I'm actually feeling a little anxious."

"Oh, I'm sorry dear."

"Could I have an Ativan? Please?"

"Sorry, Richie. I can't do that."

Richie tried fluttering his eyelashes.

"The answer's still no."

* * *

 

"And how was your morning and afternoon group therapy today? Did you make progress?" Dr. Koontz asked.

"No. It's impossible to make progress in those shit shows. You know what they gave us in morning? A worksheet for our 'disturbing thoughts.' We were supposed to write all our bad thoughts in a cartoon frowny face. How the hell am I supposed to take that seriously?"

"What did you do with you worksheet?"

Richie snickered and reached into his pocket. He handed the doctor the worksheet he'd been given a few hours before. It was decorated in pink cartoon penises.

Dr. Koontz sighed and handed the paper back to Richie. "Richie, do you even want to get better?" _How could he say that?! I'm here! I drove myself here! I took initiative! Fuck you, Dr. Deadeyes._ "Why did you do this?"

"You're kidding, right? They treat me like a child here! I get how some of the B Warders could use shit like this, but not me. It's insulting the way all the patients around here are lumped into one group. _I_ want to get better, this place is trying to stop me."

"Do you often feel that the world is against you?"

"Don't redirect! I made a valid point. The treatment here is disgustingly general. You've got depressives, schizophrenics, bipolars, OCDers, etc. and you're giving us all the same damn treatment! And then there's the fact that you've got people who aren't even mentally ill and just going through a rough time. You're feeding them pills and telling them they're crazy until they start to believe it."

"Richard, are speaking about yourself?"

"No! Why do you have to dismiss my argument like that?

"One of the techs gave me notes on your behavior this morning. He says you were behaving erratically."

"I wasn't! I tried to explain to him what I was doing."

"He also wrote that you tried to seduce him. Care to elaborate on that?" _Say yes, Richie! Tell him you need help! You drown your problems in drugs and sex, you know this. Do something to fix it. Tell him._

"No."

Dr. Koontz sighed again. "Ok. Are you taking your lithium?"

"Yes."

"That's at least somewhere to start. It won't start really taking effect for a few weeks, so you need to stick with it. Until then, you need to start investing yourself in therapy. If the nurses notice you not participating in the next group therapy session, I've told them to cancel your visitation time." _Suck it up, Richie. Do it for mom._

"Ok. I understand."

"When your seventy-two hour hold ends, what are your plans?" _What the hell, Dr. Deadeyes? I just agreed to something! Isn't that worthy of praise at all? Do I need to get on my knees and call him daddy? He is kind of hot, for a head doctor at least. If the way he looks at the nurses is any indication, he doesn't value his wife enough to not cheat. I bet if I offered to blow him, he'd let me. Jeeeeeeesus. No. Don't try. You're getting better. Do it for your mom._

"I'm gonna stay. I want to stay until the meds work. I want to get better."

"I think that's a good decision. Make it your primary goal to stick with it. You could use the time to detox, too."

"Detox?"

"Richard, I know you've been in inpatient before. We get a copy of the toxicology report from your urine, remember? And I know for a fact that you've asked for Ativan twice today. Now that's your right to request medication, and I can't stop you from doing it, but just know that nurses are aware of your past drug use. I know you're experiencing a bad manic episode, I know how you got here, and just watching you, I can tell you're suffering. Normally, I'd advise the nurses to give you an Ativan when it's this bad for you, if only to give you momentarily relief, but someone with your past can't be trusted with as needed drugs unless it's deemed absolutely essential."

_Shit._

* * *

 

Richie walked up to the nurses' station at what was probably five o'clock. He'd asked one of the tech's for the time, so he was pretty sure he was right. As the prospect of seeing his mother drew nearer, Richie felt his pulse quicken. _Don't be anxious. It's your mother. You haven't always gotten along, but you love each other. There's no reason to be nervous. If anything she'll be proud of you. You checked yourself in here, you're getting help. She'll be proud._

Despite trying to calm himself, he felt his palms grow sweaty and he felt a headache coming on. He wanted to be calm for his mother. He needed to show her that he was getting better. He could handle an Ativan. _I behaved in group therapy. I did the stupid worksheet. I nodded my head and smiled. I respected others. I've been good. I've earned it._

He smiled to the nurse on duty.

"Joseph," he said in a sweet voice, "can I have an–"

"No."

_Goddammit._

* * *

 

"Richard?" A tech peered into the common room. Richie shot up from the game of Jenga he was playing with Eddie and Stan. The tower of wooden blocks came crashing down.

"Dammit, Richie!" Stan said. "That was the furthest we've ever gotten."

"Oh shove it, Stan. You make us take blocks out two at a time so it's always symmetrical. That's the reason the game is always over so fast." Stan glared at him.

"Richard," the tech repeated, "your mother is here to visit you."

_You did it, Rich! You did it! You are the greatest. Batting a thousand. You're a good boy, no kinks needed._

"Good luck," Eddie whispered. Richie gave him an encouraging smile. Earlier that day, his roommate had garnered the courage to go up to the nurses' station and remove his own mother from his visitor's list.

"I don't need luck, Swaghetti."

Richie bounded through the hall, the tech hustling behind him. Richie threw the door to the dining room open. His mom was the only one who had gotten there so far. It didn't surprise Richie, his mother had always been punctual. Although she had dropped off his things the day previous, Mrs. Tozier had been unable to come during the actual visiting hours. She hadn't seen him at all since the night before he took his motorcycle out for his wild ride.

"Mom!" he cried as he pulled her into a hug. After a second, she wrapped her arms around him. She held him for nearly two minutes before they both sat down.

"How are–"

""Oh mom it's so great I mean I'm doing so great. I'm really getting better this time. I promise you when I get out of here I'm going to make things right. No more drugs no more flings no more speeding none of it. I'll make things right with dad I'll get a new job I'll keep my new job. I'll move out of you guys' house and I'll start applying to colleges for next semester. I'll get a little apartment and pay for it myself I'll have you over and I'll cook for you I'll make you iced tea. Remember when you used to make me and my friends iced tea? I loved your idea tea but I never told you I loved your iced tea but I really did love your iced tea. Where did you get that tea? The tea they have in here tastes like water. My friend in here Bill likes it and Bill is a good guy but man does he have bad taste in tea. It's the weakest tea I've ever had–"

"Richie, you're rambling again."

Richie pulled himself out of his mind and locked eyes with his mother. Her hair was the same shade of brown as his, her skin had the same pinkish undertones, her eyes were just as blue as the ones that sat behind Richie's glasses. And yet, they were a world apart. Richie noticed the worry lines on his mother's face and he knew he was the reason they were there.

"Mom, I'm sorry–"

"You can't keep doing this Richie. Your father and I… after the way you've been acting the past few months...."

Richie's heart stopped. "What do you mean?"

"Do you think that your actions don't have consequences?  Do you know how many times I've had to lie for you? To cover your tracks? Everytime you were caught with drugs at school or got a speeding ticket or yelled at the cops – I was always the one to clean up your mess. And then there's your father. You ruined his oldest friendship. He wants to support you, but he can hardly look at you now. He loves you so much and you're breaking him apart. You don't even care what you've put us through."

"I do care!"

"No. You _say_ you care and then you go off and do something like it again. Ever since you were a kid, you've always done this. There is something inside you, something that is so hopelessly entwined with who you are, I don't know what it is, but it makes you addicted to self destruction. I didn't come here to yell at you. I just… I just can't do it anymore."

"I'm trying to get better!"

"I've heard this before, Richie. I know your game. You say you want to get better and then you use that to manipulate people. I know it sounds funny to you. For instance, sleeping with both Mr. Johnson and his wife, but you ruined their family. Do you understand that? You _ruined_ a marriage. It isn't a joke and other people's lives aren't a game."

"Mom… I'm sorry. I'm trying to be better. I swear. I'm trying though, you've got to see that I am. I checked myself in. I'm not lying to the doctors. I'm taking my medicine."

"This is your third time in a place like this. We have tried to get you help so many times before. Your father has spent so much money on psychiatrists, on therapists, on inpatient, on rehab... And when you told us that the doctors didn't listen to you and that they were being mean to you, we listened. We took you out of so many programs, against medical advice, because you begged us to. We thought we were helping you, _I_ thought we were helping you. But you don't take help. I see the truth now, we failed you. All this time, we were just enabling you. We can't do it anymore. Once you've given up on treatment this time, you're dad and I have decided to take you off our insurance. I'm sorry Richie. I'm your mother. I love you. But I don't get you. I never have."

Mrs. Tozier picked up her pocketbook and walked out the door.

Richie was left alone with an apathetic tech and his own mind.

_It's you. It's always been you._

* * *

 

"Welcome back to another session of evening group therapy!" Deborah announced.

Today, they were having evening group in Ward A, so at least that was something. Henry and his goons were less inclined to outbursts when they weren't on their own turf.

Richie closed his eyes and pretended he wasn't in the circle. He knew that his friends were looking at him with concern, they had been since he'd returned from visitation sobbing. Stan in particular was concerned. Despite having met him before in inpatient, he had never seen Richie cry before. Richie had refused to talk. Instead, he's sat in front of the T.V. with unwatching eyes until the other A Warders started pushing the chairs into a circle for group.

"Today, I want to talk about the stigma surrounding mental health issues."

Richie opened his eyes, though they were still sticky with tears. He locked eyes with Bev. She looked just as devastated as he did. _Court. Your mom is right. You're selfish. You haven't thought about Bev all day. And now here she is. She was supposed to be gone. She's a good person. She isn't sick. She should be starting a new life with her aunt in Portland, but she's stuck with loonies like you._ Beverly did something entirely unexpected; she smiled at him. Her lips curled in a sad, but earnest expression that ached with understanding. Richie wiped his eyes and stood up.

"Ok, Deborah. Stigma? That's what you want to talk about?" he said. Bill gave him a look that screamed for him to sit down. Stan did the same. So did Mike. And Eddie. Not Bev. Her eyes told him to go on.

"Richie," Deborah said with that saccharine smile permanently tattooed to her face, "we take turns in group, remember?"

"No. I'm sick of this. You don't understand this. You have no idea the stigma we face."

Deborah sighed just like Dr. Deadeyes had. "Fine, Richie. Will you enlighten us?"

_Look at her! She doesn't take you seriously! She thinks she's humoring you so you'll shut up. Well if she wants to know, tell her._

“Mentally ill people go through so much shit in this society. You could never understand! Our right to anger and sadness are stripped away from us! When people see us yell, they say it’s because we’re crazy. When people see us cry, they dismiss our troubles without a second thought. Our emotions and our experiences are instantly negated in the face of our illness. If someone goes home from the hospital, their friends coo over them and by them card and teddy bears and shit. But if that person told their friend they were in the psych ward, she would change her entire demeanor. Oh sure, she would try and comfort me. She would _want_ to understand me and support me. She would _want_ to be the type of person who _could_ understand and support me. And then she would hate herself when she realizes that she can't be that person. She can never be that person. And it's not her fault!

"People like to think that they’re a good person because they've helped someone who is depressed or who has dealt with anxiety, but if they saw us ruining our lives with self destruction because our brains just won’t shut up, they wouldn’t think it’s cute, they would be terrified and disgusted. People think they want to help mentally ill people. People _think_ that they want to befriend them and parent them and be there for them, but they don't. They want to tell us that we aren't messed up or wrong or sick or whatever, but you know what, fuck that!

"I know the fucking truth! I am mentally ill and that makes me sick! I'm tired of people like you telling me I can fix myself through worksheets and bullshit affirmations! I'm fucking sick and I need help! And sickness doesn’t make you a bad person! So stop telling me to be proud of my illness! I am not proud to be bipolar because it has ruined my fucking life!

"See those nurses looking at me? They don’t hear what I’m saying. They just see a crazy guy yelling at a bunch of other crazy people. They don’t care that I’m angry for a reason. They won’t try and understand why I’m angry. And you don't either." Richie felt his body quiver in rage. He was too scared to meet anyone's eyes, but he could feel them on him.

“Richie, that was a breakthrough!” Deborah said. "You should be proud!"

“I'm not proud," Richie sobbed, "I just want to go home.”

A nurse approached Richie with a paper cup and handed him some Ativan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: manic episode like woah, mentions of past erratic behavior, erratic thoughts, delusional thoughts


	3. Act One, Scene Two: You Got to Lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike Hanlon has the patience of a saint.  
> Note: the content on this one is pretty racially charged, if this concerns you at all, please check the end notes for trigger warnings

 

# Act One, Scene Two: You Got to Lose

 

Mike Hanlon woke up at 6:30 sharp. His internal clock was a well-oiled machine. Not even the timeless nature of Ward B could prevent him from waking up at the same time he had all his life – and it was a good thing too, waking up before Henry Bowers was the key to Mike's Stay Sane plan. Trademark pending.

Mike was on day five. Five days of waking up next to Bowers, five days of group therapy, five days of psychiatrists, five days of that impending urge to smash his face against the wall. But Mike was managing. One day at a time – no, one _minute_ at a time. _That's right, Mikey,_ his father's voice rang in his head, _you just gotta take on life one minute at a time._

Being black in Derry was ok. Or rather, being black in Derry was ok if you fit in with The Jeffersons, Minstrel Show, I Loves You Porgy, complacent, inoffensive little negro role that Derry had _decided_ was ok sometime in 1977. You were allowed to listen to Billie Holiday, but if you wanted to sing about "black bodies swinging in the southern breeze," you had to let everyone know just how much of a savior the North was and how grateful you were to be there.

"You best not have been in my shower, nigger." Henry was up, then. Henry didn't give a fuck whether you were Uncle Tom or Malcolm X – he wanted you dead. His whole family did. "I swear these motherfuckers made me share my room with you because they _want_ me to get that sickle-cell shit."

"Sickle-cell anemia isn't contagious–"

"Did anyone fucking ask you? Huh?"

_(You have to be careful where you take your stand.)_

His father's voice kept him right, it'd always had, but by God, every minute that ticked away in Ward B made that voice get just a little quieter.

* * *

_"Butch Bowers came 'round today. He came right up to the porch."_

_"Did he?"_

_"I ain't ever kid you, Mike. Butch came 'round. I'm being straight with you."_

_"You sure, Grandpa?"_

_"Yes I'm sure!"_

_Mike Hanlon was twenty-eight and living with his grandfather again. Rather, this time around, his grandfather was living with him. Leroy Hanlon had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's two years earlier. Mike was his only family and it hadn't taken one second of hesitation for Mike to move back in. His grandfather wanted to keep living in the same farmhouse he'd lived his whole life in, but was too proud to admit it. So Mike'd made up a half-lie about money being tight. It made it easier to ignore his grandfather's impending degradation. Now, the disease was set upon rearing its ugly head. Even going to work during the day made Mike feel guilty. They'd be having to hire a nurse soon, but that damn Hanlon pride kept delaying it._

_"You didn't let him in, did you?"_

_"Hell no. I told him that if he ever wanted to set foot on my property, he'd better have his goddamned search warrant ready."_

_"Good. Next time he shows, you call me. I'll be home in no time."_

_"Well he came 'round today."_

_"I know, Grandpa. You just told me."_

_"Oh."_

_"Now what are you supposed to do if he shows up again?"_

_"Huh?"_

_"Call me, Grandpa. If he comes back, you call me."_

_"I did call you. He came 'round, and I called you. That damn phone don't work."_

_Mike sighed. He went over to their old landline. Mike had been trying to convince his grandfather to get a cell phone. He'd even bought him a cheap Jitterbug flip and with 911, the operator, and his own number plugged in – but it was no dice with Leroy. Mike picked up the landline receiver. The dial tone came with no hesitation._

_"Grandpa, the phone works fine."_

_"You know when I was your age, we had party lines. That's right, you pick up the phone and you better pray your neighbor ain't making a call! Back then, every single farmer in Derry was on the same line. I remember when they first got switchboards, you better bet they kicked the Hanlon family off the line as soon as they could! I was sixteen, I remember because that was the year of the Battle of Bulge. My mama paid to send a letter all the way to Belgium to tell me about that damn phone. That's the same phone right there, Mikey. You get that, boy? You're touching a piece of history."_

_It wasn't the same phone. The landline they had now was bought by Mike's father in 1995. To be fair, they'd never thrown out the old one, it was stored up in the attic with Leroy's moth-eaten uniform and his Silver Star._

_"Ok, Grandpa. Do you remember my phone number?"_

_"Hmm?"_

_"My phone number."_

_"I just call the operator."_

_"Ok. But remember if you go through the operator, you've got to call 411."_

_"I just hit zero."_

_"No, they changed it to 411. Remember?"_

_"With party lines all you had to do was pick up the damn reciever."_

_"Well now you've got to call 411. What do you do after that?"_

_"Tell them I need to reach the Derry Public Library."_

_Mike could have cried in relief._

_"Yes! Then when the receptionist picks up, what do you do?"_

_"I tell her I need to speak to my grandson."_

_"That's right, Grandpa. That's all you have to do. Sherry is a good woman, she knows me. You get through to her and she'll patch you right through to me, ok?"_

_"Did I tell you Butch Bowers came 'round today?"_

* * *

"How was Bowers this morning?" Beverly whispered as she and Mike curled up in the corner lounge near the Nurses Station of Ward B.

"You know, same as ever."

"Yeah? Well he's an asshole."

"No shit, Marsh. I think you're slipping with your insults." Mike smiled at her. Bev rolled her eyes and pulled her hoodie up. She curled in against him and Mike looked around before wrapping an arm around her.

"You nervous for court?" he asked, shifting his weight away from her.

"No. I think I'm excited, is that weird?"

"Not at all. It's your time to shine Marsh. You show those suits what you're all about."

"You know I will."

"So… are you and Ben going to be hooking up on the outside?"

"Mike!" Bev tried to look offended, but it didn't sit well on her features. She laughed. "Ok, ok, ok, maybe I like Ben."

"Maybe? You were giving him goo-goo eyes all of yesterday's evening group."

"Well I still had Ativan in my system to be fair." She lowered her eyes and a passing blush lit her cheeks. "But he was awful sweet. Can I tell you something without sounding crazy?"

"Well you're competing with Victor and Henry, so whatever you have to say will probably be the most rational thing I've heard in awhile."

Bev tried to smile again but faltered. "I think I need a guy to be sweet to me. I'm not stupid enough to think that I've found my soulmate in this fucking insane asylum, but Ben's the first guy who was attracted to me who's actually been _nice."_

"Bev, that isn't crazy in the least. He gets out today too, you should try and see each other before you leave town."

"I want to. But I also don't want to. God, that doesn't make sense, does it?"

"Try explaining it."

"Well, I want to see him again and he wants to see me again too. I mean even if we never dated or anything… I just really like him."

"So what's the problem?"

"You'll think I'm dumb."

Mike laughed. "We've been over this, Bev. This morning, Henry told me he thought I'd give him sickle-cell anemia."

"Are you serious?"

"Sure am."

"God! Henry is such a fucking idiot. Did you know his dad is a cop?"

"Yeah, I know." Mike took a deep breath. "Anyway, back to my question: if you like Ben and he likes you, what's the problem?"

"What if… what if I ruin him?"

"How'd you mean?"

"I don't know… God… I'm being so dumb…" Mike was sure she was going to shut down again. "Well he's the nicest person I've ever met and I'm just so _bad._ I mean I know I'm not like bad, bad, but I'm messed up, you know? My dad messed me up. My ex-boyfriends too. The worst part is that I'm just now seeing how messed up they made me. Like I've never seen a good, healthy relationship of any kind and Ben's just this beautiful, perfect person and I don't want my mess to get rubbed all over him. Does that make sense?"

"I get what you're saying, but you've got to remember that Ben isn't perfect. You think he is because he would never put his hands on you. The other guys treated you so poorly that in comparison, anyone who isn't abusive seems too good to be true."

"You're right. I'm so broken, Mike."

"No you aren't. What happened to you was awful, but the fact that you're still going proves that you aren't broken. I have cracks. Bill has cracks. _Ben_ has cracks. And so do you. But we aren't broken. I mean I hate to be cliche, but take the Liberty Bell. It was first cracked in 1752 and it was less than a year old! It was really poorly constructed, but that doesn't matter one lick. It still rang until 1846 when the crack got as big as we see it now."

"So it is broken."

"On the contrary! Every year on Independence Day, hundreds of people flock to Philadelphia to watch the great Liberty Bell tapping."

"You're kidding."

"Miss Marsh, I would never kid you." Mike smiled.

"So you're trying to tell me that people tap on the bell and pretend it's ringing?"

"They do! I went once when I was in college and it was beautiful. It's like this nice, deep gong sound. It's not important. What I'm trying to say is that you aren't broken. Ben's good, but he isn't flawless, so you don't need to worry about ruining him. Ok?"

"Gee Mike, I swear if you ever get tired of the library game, you could come back here and run this place. At least you'd do it right. The whole damn system is fucked up."

* * *

_The next day, a police car was parked right outside the property line of the Hanlon farm when Mike got home. Butch Bowers rolled down the window when he saw Mike walk by, but he didn't say anything, he just glowered through his mirrored sunglasses with steel lips._

_"Officer Bowers. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Mike took the bait._

_"Just doing a routine patrol."_

_"Is that why you're parked?" Butch kept mum. "My grandfather said you came up to the door yesterday."_

_"Look Hanlon, your grandfather is a loony old crow, this whole town knows it."_

_"He's ill."_

_"Word around town is that you've got guns in that house."_

_"That's not a crime."_

_"So you admit it?"_

_"Am I admitting to something perfectly legal?"_

_"You let that kook grandfather of yours near a gun and I'll be the first one on the scene."_

_"My grandfather doesn't have access to weapons."_

_"You ever here what happens when you give a negro a rifle?"_

_"Goodbye, officer."_

_Mike grit his teeth and walked away._

* * *

Mike felt Henry's glare bore into the back of his head all through breakfast. He mostly kept to himself at meal times and that was fine. Richie was always ready to entertain and that made things go by a little faster. So Mike sat back and let him, Bev, and Ben take center stage.

When it was time for Ben to go, he handed them all notes. Mike tucked his in his pocket. Ben, like Mike, had spent most of his time on the seventh floor keeping quiet. For him though, it didn't seem to be a defense mechanism so much as an automatic state of being. Most of what Mike actually knew about Ben came from Beverly and it was all good. As Mike smiled to Ben and gave him a clap on the back, he figured that Beverly's beaux would be alright.

* * *

_The day after Bower's stakeout, Mike saw his grandfather cry for the first time in his life._

_He was worried when he came home from work and saw that Leroy wasn't in the house. He found him by the chicken coop surrounded by the corpses of their hens and smashed eggs. Swastikas were spray painted on the side of the coop in a red that looked like it could be blood._

_Mike didn't know what to say. Instead of trying to speak, he wrapped his arm around his grandfather's shoulder and ushered him away from the scene. Leroy brought the bill of his cap down to cover his eyes, but Mike still caught his tears. His grandpa was the first who dared to talk once they were inside._

_"Will, don't tell your mother. It'll just upset her."_

_"Grandpa… it's Mike."_

_"Oh. Oh, yes. Mike."_

_"Do you know who I am?"_

_"Of course, Mike. Of course I know you. You're my grandson." He spoke almost as if it were a question. Mike felt like he could join his grandfather in tears._

_"Yes, Grandpa." He fixed his grandfather a glass of coke, remembering all the times his mother had done the same for him. He wondered if his grandfather would even remember his late daughter-in-law's name._

_"They killed our chickens, Mikey."_

_"I know. I saw."_

_His grandfather's arm looked so thin as it brought the cup to his lips. Mike could hardly stand that they the same arms that taught him to shoot a sheep between the eyes. That was the thought that ripped a tear from his eye. Mike sniffed and wiped it away._

_"Grandpa, do you know who did it?" Mike asked, but he was sure he already knew._

_"I tell you, son."_

_"Tell me what?"_

_"I tell you!"_

_"Grandpa… was it Bowers? Was it Butch?"_

_His grandpa made a sound that sounded a bit like a harrumph._

_"The chickens, Grandpa. What happened to the damn chickens?"_

_"They killed them! Mikey, I already told you."_

_Mike pinched the bridge of his nose. "Who, Grandpa._ Who _killed the chickens?"_

_"You know Will was the one who decided we ought to keep chickens. Will was a good boy. He's in the army, you know? Just like me. His mama and I always knew he'd enlist."_

_"Grandpa, who killed the chickens?"_

_"Did I ever tell you about Will?"_

_"Will's my dad. I'm your grandson."_

_"Oh, yes. Of course. Will you turn the radio on? They're having Johnnie Ray on tonight. You know Johnnie Ray? When me and the boys first heard Johnnie Ray on the radio, we were in Korea. We had a bet, you know, half the battalion swore that he was white, other half swore he was black. He's white, you know. I knew it as soon as he came on the radio. I told him they didn't broadcast no negro music on the American radio in Korea."_

_"Ok, Grandpa. We can listen to Johnnie Ray if you want." Mike pulled his phone out and played a video of Johnnie Ray singing "Cry" on TV in 1957. Mike closed his eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like in Osan with fire in the sky. He wondered how that feeling compared to seeing your chickens dead and a swastika to show for it._

* * *

 

"You know, when I was in Korea, they had Marilyn Monroe come out and flash her pussy."

"Jesus Christ, Victor! You want to shut the fuck up?"

"Oh, sure, Henry. Sorry, Henry."

Mike and Beverly watched this strange exchange from their corner of the common room.

"What the hell are you going to do once I'm out of here?" Beverly asked.

"Hopefully I won't be far behind."

"Definitely. I know you don't really like to talk about yourself, but I'm sure you've got friends out there waiting for you."

"Yeah."

Across the room, Vic and Henry were starting up again.

"They put her right on stage. She comes up and starts singing in this breathy voice. You know, when Marilyn sang, it sounded like she was singing just to me. But then she stamped her foot real hard. She must've been trying to dance or something, but she stomped right on a landmine! Blam!"

Henry flipped the table.

"Here comes the Ativan express," Bev whispered as a nurse handed Henry a pill and tech fixed the table. Henry huffed to his room as the sedation started to kick in, leaving Vic devastated in his wake.

After a few minutes, Mike approached him. Bev gave him a look, but said nothing as Mike sat next to Vic.

"You know, my Grandfather served for ten years, 1943 to 1953. He was in WWII and Korea."

Victor frowned. "I was in Korea."

Although Victor's delusions had become part of Mike's everyday life, Mike still wavered on how to deal with him. Now, looking at the broken man before him (if you could even call the nineteen year old a man) he felt an overwhelming sense of pity. But he knew what it was like to deal with someone who lived in two different worlds and sometimes it was easier just to humor them.

"Is that so? What branch were you in, Vic?"

"Marines. Air Force. I was a Navy Seal, you know."

"Ok."

"I was a hero."

"I'm sure."

Vic stared at his lap for awhile. Then, in a low voice without making eye contact, he spoke, "Can you tell me about your grandfather?"

"Well, he was only fifteen when he signed up, that was in '44. He lied about his age, because the army wasn't taking anyone under sixteen. He fought in the Battle of the Bulge and they gave him a Silver Star when he got home for that. Between wars, he was stationed all over the place. He met my grandmother in Alabama and after his service was over, he brought her back to Derry. He was one of the first to be shipped off to Korea when that started up, he was a captain by then. In WWII, he was a buffalo soldier, but in Korea, they integrated the military halfway through the war, so he fought alongside white guys for the last year of his service. He got a Silver Star there too. He flanked a North Korean defense–"

"They gave me a Purple Heart. They only give a Silver Star to pussies and niggers."

_(You have to be careful where you take your stand.)_

Mike sighed. "Ok, Vic."

* * *

_After the chicken incident, Mike marched to the Derry Police Station and confronted the sheriff._

_"You've got to do something about your officer."_

_"And which officer are you referring to?" Sheriff Sullivan looked up from his newspaper._

_"Don't play dumb. Butch Bowers killed my chickens and spray painted a swastika on my property. I want something to be done."_

_The sheriff sighed. "Hanlon, I know you think it was him, and damn, I've got my suspicions, but if you can't prove it, I can't do anything about it."_

_"Launch an investigation."_

_"Come on now, Mike. We've got to allocate our resources a little better than that."_

_"I'm not letting this go. My grandfather is old and sick. He doesn't have many years left and he shouldn't spend his old age in terror of that racist fuck. Now Bowers is planning something, I know it. He's been casing my farm for weeks now. He isn't going to stop with the chickens."_

_"Christ, you're being paranoid. Butch may be a little backwards in his thinking but he's not going to hurt you. For God's sake, it's 2018, not the 50's. We done had a black president for eight years! I know your family's been discriminated in the past–"_

_"This town wants my family dead."_

_"Mike, if this is about the fire–"_

_"It's always going to be about the fire! I watched my parents burn to death when I was hardly eleven years old! Don't tell me that times have changed. My house was torched and I have no doubt in my mind that Bowers played a part."_

_"Now, here. The fire department ruled it electrical. You need to stop it with these trumped up conspiracies. No one is out to get you."_

_"Tell that to the fucking swastika on my chicken coop! My grandfather fought the Nazis for Christ sake and you know what? It turns out they've been in Derry this whole time!"_

_The sheriff sighed again. "Ok. Here's what's gonna happen. I'll talk to Butch and tell him to cool. You know he's been through a rough times ever since they sent his boy to the loony bin."_

_"I don't see how that's an excuse."_

_"I'm not saying it is. All I'm getting at here is that you've got to have a bit of sympathy for him. Now I'm going to recommend you get a camera and put it by the coop. If you get proof that it was Bowers, I'll have him off the force. Ok?"_

(You have to be careful where you take your stand.)

_"Ok. But if something happens before I can do that, it's going to be on your hands."_

_Mike went home and installed security cameras at every angle of his property._

* * *

At lunch, Bill tapped Mike on the shoulder.

"Hey, Mike?"

"Huh? What?" Mike had to snap himself out of his daze. Beverly had left for court an hour earlier and he was already exhausted without her presence to ground his sanity. Despite his hopes, his talk with Vic only made the other man cling closer to Henry. At least during lunch they were amusing themselves.

"You look a little out of it."

"I guess I am."

"Did Beverly get out alright?"

Mike smiled. "Yeah, you should've seen her. She's so ready to get out of here."

"I don't blame her." Bill smiled too, but there was something sad beneath it. "Hey, do you want my apple?" He handed Mike a Granny Smith.

"Oh, thanks. You know I grow apples."

The whole table perked up. Mike supposed he shouldn't be surprised. He didn't talk about himself too often.

"Ho-ho-ho! Mikey Appleseed, huh?" Richie laughed as he picked the fries off of Bill's plate.

"I guess you could say that. I grew up on a farm and I moved back a few years ago to help care for my grandfather. When I was a kid, we had acres of orchards. We grew Fujis mostly, but also some McIntoshes and Golden Delicious too. We were mostly a livestock farm, but the apples were a nice supplement. Nowadays, we've only got a few heirloom trees. Still better than this shit though." Mike took a bite of the waxy apple.

"So you're a farmer?" Eddie asked. "I thought you said you worked at the library. Not that I'm saying you're lying! Oh shit, I'm misremembering, aren't I? God, I'm sorry, I'm still a little… jittery." Mike didn't blame him, Eddie had the same sort of brown mush on his tray now as he did for breakfast. Bill handed him half a sandwich.

"Don't sweat it, Eddie. I did say I work at the library. I'm actually head librarian. Farming's more of a hobby these days. I sell apples at the Farmer's Market most weekends."

"Didn't you used to sell eggs?" Stan asked. "I thought you looked familiar."

"Yeah, I did. You used to come in with your mom, right?"

"Uh huh. My mom bought all her eggs from you up until a month ago. Did you sell your chickens?"

"Something like that."

"Well, egg boy, here's to you!" Richie made a toast with his glass of iced tea. Stan rolled his eyes. Mike smiled again.

* * *

_Mike held his daddy's rifle in his hands for the first time in many years. It was one of the few precious things of his parent's to survive the fire. Though the gun had belonged to Will Hanlon, it was Leroy who'd taught Mike to shoot. Where Will had preferred to be tactful and cautious, Leroy was not one to waste time hemming and hawing._

"If you point a gun, you best be ready to shoot," _Leroy'd said when Mike was sent to his grandparents' farm one weekend when he was six. His daddy had taken a lot of convincing, but had eventually given into his father's request to teach Mike to shoot. So it'd been little Mike with the big gun. The first time he fired, the kick back knocked him clean off his feet. His grandpa had laughed real hard at that._

_It was different now. As Mike cleaned the rifle, there were no more joyful memories of summer in the apple orchard. That feeling of kinship and heritage had burned away a long time ago._

_"Mikey, what're you up to?" It was a good day with Leroy – at least relatively. Mike had stayed home and not once had his grandfather forgotten who he was._

_"Just cleaning the gun, Grandpa."_

_"I bought your daddy that gun."_

_"I know."_

_"Your daddy and his brother got matching rifles for Christmas in '63. That was the year they shot Medgar Evers. Your grandmother and I figured we ought to get the boys guns after that. You know about Medgar Evers, right Mikey?"_

_"Yes sir, you fought with him, didn't you?"_

_"You got that right! He was a few years older than me, took me right under his wing though. We didn't keep in touch after the war. The last time I heard from him was a few years before he died. I'll always regret not getting involved with NAACP like he did."_

_"Why didn't you?"_

_"I was busy, marrying your mother, raising you and your brother. Besides, that happened in Mississippi. You thank your lucky stars you were born in Maine, son. You know, Will, one day they'll convict the motherfuck who killed Evers."_

_"They did, Grandpa. It took them more than thirty years, but they convicted him. He died in prison seventeen years ago."_

_"Is that right?"_

_"Yes sir."_

_Mike finished the cleaning the gun and hung it right back over the fireplace. It was an M1917 Enfield – it so happened to be the same model that had killed Medgar Evers. If his grandfather hadn't slipped out of his lucidity, Mike would have asked whether that was intentional or just a coincidence. Mike put a few rifle cartridges in his pocket before locking the rest in his safe._

* * *

"Mr. Hanlon, are you there?"

"Yes, Mr. Perry. I'm here." Mike cradled the phone between his cheek and shoulder. All things considered, it was a good time to make a phone call. Henry was in with the psychiatrist, Victor was with his social worker, and Belch was holed up in his room. There was only Patrick to worry about and he stared at Mike with a wide smile stretching his face. Mike turned away from him. "Tell me you've got good news."

"I do. I got in touch with the president of the Maine branch and he is happy to have the organization take over your legal expenses."

Mike let out a tight breath. His stomach muscles relaxed for the first time in days. The number for the NAACP outpost in Bangor was the one Mike had the sense to write down before being admitted to the seventh floor. Mr. Perry was his contact. "You're a lifesaver. How's my grandfather?"

"He's still a bit confused, but that's to be expected. He's asleep right now, I'd wake him, but he hasn't been sleeping through the night." Mr. Perry and his wife had had the good will to care for Leroy for the duration of Mike's hospitalization.

"It's okay. I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me."

"It's no trouble at all. Now let's talk business. I've been working with the courts and they agree that you shouldn't've been committed."

Another sigh of relief. "Are they going to take it off my record?"

"I tried every angle, Mr. Hanlon, but the blue paper can't be revoked. I'm so sorry."

"It's ok. I can deal with it. What does it mean for me?"

"Well, when you come out, everything will go back to normal for the most part."

"The most part?"

"You're going to have to surrender your rifle."

"They can't do that."

"They can and they are. It's federal law that any person admitted to a mental institution shall be restricted from possession of firearms if it affects interstate commerce. That stands even if the person admitted was admitted under false pretenses."

"How the hell does a gun that has been in my family for decades affect interstate commerce?"

"Your grandfather bought the gun on a trip to Connecticut. Commerce Clause let's the feds take over. I know it's fucked up, but it's the law. Besides, you'll be better off without it. The NRA isn't protecting black gun owners, and you and I both know it. It's safer not to own one."

_(You have to be careful where you take your stand.)_

"Ok. Fine. Let them have the damn gun."

"I know you're in a tight place, Mr. Hanlon."

Mike braved a look at Patrick. Patrick's Cheshire grin had not ceased. 

"You can say that again, Perry."

"I advise you to focus on our successes."

Mike laughed. "Care to remind me what they are?"

"You're safe. Your grandfather's safe. Bowers could have killed you and gotten away with it. Now he's looking at hard time. The organization sent half the Bangor base up to his arraignment. When they brought Bowers to the stand, he fell like a paper man. He blabbed about the chickens almost immediately. By the time they read him his actual charges, he'd already admitted enough for a conviction. Your secretary, Sherry, and Sheriff Sullivan both agreed to be character witnesses. You're a well-liked man here in Derry, Mr. Hanlon."

"Good to hear. When can I get discharged?"

"Well, as of two days ago, you're there voluntarily. I want you to stay overnight if you can. Bowers won't be detained again for another day. We had to fight for pretrial detention as it is. Now it's nothing to fret over, but it's safer for you to be there right now."

"You're starting to sound like the sheriff. I'm wracking up quite the hospital bill."

"I know, Mr. Hanlon, but the NAACP is going to pay for that too. Everyone on the outside knows you're sane, I promise. No one's going to hold any prejudice over you being in there when you come home."

"Maybe on the outside. I've been keeping to myself in here," Mike lowered his voice, "but there are some real loose cannons, if you know what I mean."

"I do. I'm sure you've got lots of stories to tell. Are there any Nurse Ratcheds in there?"

"Nah, for the most part all the workers are good. They think I'm nuts though."

"Let 'em think it. Soon enough you'll be back home and I swear to God we'll get enough money from this suit that you can retire any time you want."

"I appreciate it, but I don't need the money."

"Well you'll have it. The NAACP won't rest until we do your family justice. For now, I need you to breathe and keep pushing on. Play smart, don't give anyone any reason to think your volatile, and we'll get you discharged tomorrow."

"Got it."

"Oh, and Mr. Hanlon?"

"Yes?"

"I heard that Bowers has a son, Henry I think. They're extremely estranged as far as I can gather, but word is that he's a patient in the same facility you're in. Have you run into him?"

"You could say that. He's my roommate."

"Christ, man, you should've told me. Are you ok?"

"Yeah. Like you said, he's estranged from his father. As far as I can tell, he doesn't know anything about what's happened."

"Regardless, stay safe."

* * *

_Mike and his grandfather were sitting down for dinner when it happened._

"Come out, nigger!" _A shot rang out._

_"Holy hell! Boy, what the fuck was that?" Leroy was the first to stand. He knocked his coke over. "That was a shot! Goddamn, it was a motherfucking shot. Evers, that was a shot!"_

_Mike froze._

"Get your black ass out here!"

_"Grandpa, we've got to go to the basement, ok? We're going to stay down there tonight."_

_"Get your head on! That was a shot!"_

_"I know, Grandpa. I know."_

_Red and blue lights flashed outside but Mike knew they weren't signalling help. Another shot hit the dirt outside._

_"Goddamn, goddamn! We've got to charge." Leroy's thin arms were trembling._

_"Grandpa!"_

_"Mikey…"_

_"Yes, it's me. For God's sake, we've got to get you to the basement."_

_"It's motherfucking Bowers."_

_"I know, I know." Mike put his arms around his grandfather's shoulders only to be pushed away._

_"You best get your hands off me! For Christ's sake, Evers! Grab the bull by the motherfucking horns!"_

_Another shot._ "I'll smoke you out, nigger!"

_"We've got to get downstairs."_

_"Christ, Evers! They'll fucking burn us out!"_

"Get your ass out here unless you want to burn in hell like your coon parents!"

_Before Mike could stop him, Leroy flung the front door open. "Get your cracker ass off my lawn! I killed fifty goddamned Nazis, I can kill one more!"_

_Mike slammed the door closed just as he saw a shotgun shell tear open the wood beams of their porch._

_"Mikey, liven up! You've got to fight that cheapshit bastard!"_

(You have to be careful where you take your stand.)

_Mike pulled out his phone and dialled the sheriff's direct line. It took five rings for Sullivan to pick up._

"Hullo?"

_"Sullivan, Jesus Christ, your man is at my house and he's shooting."_

"You're kidding."

_"Christ, man! I wouldn't kid! He's threatening to burn down my goddamn grandad's house! I told you, I fucking told you!"_

"Hold tight, Mike. Hold tight, okay? I'm coming. I'll bring half the fucking force, but you've got to hold tight."

_"Evers, we've got to charge!"_

_"Sullivan, I've got to defend my home. I have a_ right _to defend my home."_

"Mike, he's a fucking police officer. You don't want to end up in Shawshank. Hold tight."

_Mike hung up. He smelled smoke. He pulled the curtains back and peered out the window. Wouldn't you know it, Butch Bowers had come ready with a goddamned tiki torch. Mike took the rifle from its perch over the fireplace._

"I killed your nigger parents! I killed your nigger dog! I killed your nigger chickens! I'm gonna finish the goddamn job. Get you the fuck out of my town!"

_Mike loaded the rifle._

"Here I come for your ass!" _Butch roared through slurred words._

_"I'm warning you, Butch!" Mike called._

_"Get your cracker ass_ off!" _Leroy screamed. "I'll kill you with a goddamn bowie if I have to!"_

_Feet in the trap, head in the noose, God help him – Mike took a stand. He pushed Leroy down and opened the door. There was Butch, balancing his goddamned tiki torch and shotgun in his rusty old hands._

(If you point a gun, you best be ready to shoot)

 _Butch had a good shot, clear as day. Butch_ was _a good shot – Derry Police didn't fuck around when it came to target practice. In a split second, Mike saw into the barrel of the shotgun and knew deep in his bones that Butch could make a headshot. Mike's eyes shut tight and they both pulled the trigger at the same time. There was a shot and a click. Mike missed by fifteen feet. His bullet split a branch off of one of the apple trees. Mike opened his eyes. Mike still_ had _eyes._

_Butch's gun jammed. His large, drunk eyes peered at Mike in horror. He dropped the torch. The dry grass licked with flames. Leroy was shouting something, but Mike did not hear. Mike dropped his gun and charged. In high school, Mike had played tailback. He was lithe and lean – he was no linebacker. You throw a spiral and Mike Hanlon can run it hard and fast, but his body was not built for combat and it never had been. He tackled Butch Bowers to the ground all the same._

_The shotgun flew out of Butch's hands and hang fired into the dirt – the bullet that should've buried itself in Mike's brain shot into the Earth hot and heavy. Butch may be boozed, but he flipped on Mike fast and tough. Mike jammed his into his chin, his grandfather hollering in the distance._

_"I'll burn you, you goddamn faggot coon!" Butch scrambled to his feet and kicked Mike rough into the side. The flames spread across the lawn, dangerously close to Mike's pant leg, but he took no notice. Butch made for his gun. "Nigger shit!" he screamed and reached for Mike's rifle instead. Mike got to his feet before he could. Bewildered, unbridled anger erupted from deep within him. His heart beat so quick that it quivered in his chest. He grabbed Bowers by the hair and pulled him back._

_"I'll kill you!" someone screamed. "I'll fucking kill you! Huh?! I WILL KILL YOU!" Mike realized it was him. "YOU GODDAMNED NAZI BASTARD! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"_

_Hands grabbed Mike from behind. He swung. It was Sheriff Sullivan. The deputy subdued Butch and had him cuffed in seconds. A half dozen more officers were smothering the flames with fire blankets. Leroy was still screaming. They put cuffs on Mike too._

* * *

"He was there!" Beverly's body wracked with sobs. "He was there, Mike! He was there! He was there! He was there!"

"Bev, you're ok. It's ok."

They were back on that same corner of the lounge. The nurses shot Beverly pitying looks.

"I'm not okay!" she yelled.

"Bev, come on. Please, Bev." He tried to put his arm around her. "What happened?"

"Mike, how could… how could…" she choked on wet sobs.

"I'm so sorry, Beverly." For the second time in one day, Mike held her. Henry glared at the pair of him.

"It's so unfair," her voice had flipped to a deathly silent rasp. "The judge just gave me one look and listened to _him._ Mike… it's so unfair!"

"I know. I know."

She wiped at the tears staining her face.

"Do you see me, Mike?"

"Bev…"

"Do you see me?"

"Yes, I see you."

"This world is so fucked up, you know that? Criminals walk the fucking streets and we're in here. Do you even know how fucked up the legal system is? _He was there and they let him talk."_

"I know."

* * *

_"I told you to hold tight."_

_"He was going to kill me. He was going to kill my grandfather. He's barely bruised."_

_"I know, Mike."_

_"I warned you, Sullivan. This is on you."_

_"I guess it is."_

_The cuffs were off now. Mike sat in the interrogation room, but he was no longer a prisoner – at least in theory._

_"Now, Mike. You have some options."_

_"What the hell are you on about?"_

_"Well Bowers is off the force." Mike guffawed. "Come one, Hanlon. He's being booked. They'll arraign him and they'll charge him. The cameras you installed did the job. It probably won't even go to trial, we've got that much evidence. If he ever sees daylight again, it'll be a long time from now."_

_"And what about me?"_

_"You threatened to kill him."_

_"Now hold on – you're not… you're not going to_ charge _me… are you?"_

_"No."_

_"Then what are you saying here?"_

_"You're being Baker Acted."_

_"I'm sorry?"_

_"Baker Act, Blue Paper, different name, same shit. You're being put under 72-hour psychiatric hold."_

_"I swear to God… this better be a fucking joke."_

_"I'm afraid not. The deputy already filled out the papers. I'm not calling you crazy, I know you aren't. You're the sanest man I know. If I were you, Bowers would probably be dead. But you need a place to cool down. You expressed homicidal intention after you subdued him. This is for your protection, Mike."_

_"For my protection?"_

_"Bowers is going to make bail. There's no way around it. I'll do my best to get him in remand detention, but there will be at least a few days when he's on the outside."_

_"That's the biggest pile of shit I've ever heard. Derry Police is really so goddamned inept that you're holding me prisoner–"_

_"Hold on! You're no prisoner."_

_"Yeah. I'm just going to be held in a goddamn lunatic asylum with Bowers' crazy son and not allowed to leave!"_

_"I'm doing all I can."_

_"I have a job… I have my grandad."_

_"I'll keep watch over him 'til you can get some help."_

_"And who's supposed to pay for this 'help,' huh? The NAACP?"_

_"Come on, Hanlon. You don't got to call them. It'll bring all kind of bad press to Derry."_

_"I'll go to goddamned Juniper, but if you don't think that I'm going to take down this whole damn town if I have to, you thought wrong."_

* * *

_"They don’t care that I’m angry for a reason. They won’t try and understand why I’m angry. And you don't either."_ At evening group, they all watched Richie's cracks splinter.

Not for the first time, Mike wondered what it was like to be in someone else's head. He imagined it probably sounded a lot like Johnnie Ray singing “Cry" in Osan with fire in the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Racial slurs, Alzheimer's, references to murder, hate crimes, police brutality, institutional racism, gun violence, all sorts of injustices


	4. Act One, Scene Three: 82

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill Denbrough is getting better. Bill Denbrough is getting worse.  
> Remember to check the end notes if you're concerned about triggers.

# Act One, Scene Three: 82

"William?" A tech peered into Bill's room and turned on the lights. He didn't wake up. He was on the strong stuff. Abilify, Prozac, Zoloft, the works. And Trazodone too, of course. That was the big one. 100mg at night and he was asleep in twenty minutes. It was good, or at least it was the only way he could get relief from the crippling nightmares, so it was worth something. The lingering drowsiness was less than ideal though.

"William?" The tech nudged him.

"Huh?" Bill began to stir. He pulled his paper-thin blanket over his head and turned away from the light.

"Come on, William. We go through this every morning. If you're ever going to lead a life outside of here you need to learn how to wake yourself up."

"Guh-great. Thanks." Bill got up. His eyelids were so heavy that it hurt to keep them open, but he gave it a shot. The tech lingered.

"I'm guh-guh-going to get dressed." The tech didn't move. "That muh-means I'd luh-like some puh-puh-privacy. _Please?_ "

"You know we can't leave you alone in the mornings. Change in the bathroom, I'll be here waiting."

Bill huffed. He gathered a pile of clothes and slammed the bathroom door behind him. Only it didn't slam. Doors that could slam were deemed too dangerous for the depressives, but at least it closed.

"Don't forget to take a shower!" The tech called from the bedroom.

"No!" Bill called back.

_"Good morning, Caroline."_

_Bill knew the social worker who was running morning group today, but to be fair, Bill knew everyone who worked on the seventh floor by now. Caroline handed out worksheets. The worksheet was one Bill had seen before. Generally, after a week or so, group therapy activities repeated. That was one of the many downfalls about being a long-term patient in a short-term facility._

"You think this is just a fucking vacation?"

"I'm tuh-tuh-tuh-trying to guh-guh-guh–"

"Bill. Please talk normal. Where the hell did this stutter come from?"

"Audra. I'm suh-suh-suh-suh-suh-suh–"

"Bill you've been gone for two months now."

"I'm duh-duh-duh-doing my best."

_On one side of the sheet there was a smiley face; the other a frowny face. At the top was the title: YOUR DISTURBING THOUGHTS AND YOU._

_"Ok, guys," Caroline took the floor, "we are going to work on our disturbing thoughts this morning."_

_Richie guffawed._

_"I know it might sound unnecessary to some of you, but disturbing thoughts are part of life and if we learn to spot them and examine them, we can start to diminish them. So let's take this time to record our disturbing thoughts, ok? On the left side of the paper in the sad face, I want you to write a thought that disturbs you. It can be an urge to do something bad, it can be a sad memory, or it can even just be something that annoys you. Then, in the happy face, I want you to write a positive response to that thought. For example, let's say my disturbing thought was that I want to hit someone when I get angry. Can anyone give me a positive alternative?"_

_It was Beverly who answered. "You can go for a run instead. Whenever I get angry, I just get this really thick, furious, I don't know - I guess it's sort of an energy. Like an angry energy. And some people think that the only way to get rid of that bad energy is by punching something. Going on a run is an alternative."_

_"Very good!"_

_Bill was surprised. For the duration of her stay, Beverly had been reclusive. She only really talked to Mike and the A Warders_ _,_ _and_ _had rejected every attempt at therapy. Bill wasn't too shocked. It was quite common for patients to start opening up at the eleventh hour._

_"Ok," said Caroline, "who wants to share?" It was times like these that Bill most lamented the lack of access to a clock. It didn't seem like all that much time had passed and his paper was still blank. It could have been worse. Next to him, Richie had drawn a particularly veiny cock ejaculating on the smiley face._

_Stan was volunteered. "In my frowny face I wrote: 'the world is full of cracks and ruptures.' In my happy face, I wrote: 'sometimes cracks can be beautiful.' "_

_"Excellent job, Stanley. That was very good! Who else would like to share?"_

_Caroline looked to Bill. He was normally good at sharing. He tried his best, really he did, but it didn't always come out. He flashed her his blank paper. She nodded in something that Bill hoped was sympathy. She turned to Belch. "Reginald, would you care to share with us?"_

_"Sorry lady, but this is dumb as shit."_

_"Here, here!" Richie called._

"Come on, William. You're wearing the same shirt, I can tell." In the ward, Bill had three shirts: all long sleeve black tees. He had a few flannels too and the paper scrub top. Usually laying one of those over one of his black shirts was enough to fool people into thinking he'd changed. No dice today.

"Wuh-wuh-what's it to you?"

"I don't know, William--"

"Muh-muh-muh-my nuh-name is Buh-Buh-Buh-Bill. I've buh-buh-been here for eighty-tuh-tuh-tuh-two duh-days. Yuh-you've wuh-woken me up every Muh-Monday, Wuh-Wednesday, and Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-fuck! Every _friday_ since. Juh-juh-just call me Buh-Bill." With the spitting stutter, this little speech took about a minute to ticker out. _I sound like there's a goddamned vibrator in my throat._

"Right." The tech let his voice roll deep and demeaning. The stutter did nothing to lend to Bill's ethos. "Bill. Will you please take a shower? Or atleast put on a clean shirt?"

"Nuh-nope." Bill cursed his stutter's lack of succinctity.

"Ok. I'm putting it in your notes."

"Fuh-fine."

_"What even is this?"_

_"You missed getting a menu last night."_

_Bill's breakfast was still sitting in front of him. The paper lid covered his glass of iced tea. Bill watched droplets of water cling to the outside of the glass. He felt cold sweat creep down his back._

_"Yuh-you can have my food." Bill switched their plates._

_"Oh, I couldn't," Eddie shivered in his seat. Bill gave him a nice smile and laugh to match._

_"It's okay, ruh-really. Wuh-we switch food here all the time." Bill was pretty good at switching food. Eddie smiled too. It was a good look on him._

_Bill turned his head and found that Stan was staring him down._

_When Ben was called to leave, he distributed his goodbye notes. Bill pocketed his._

One of the nurses told him he had a call. He picked up one of the receivers off the wall and she patched him through.

"Hello?"

_"Hello?"_

_"Bill, it's me."_

"Bill? Oh thank Christ! This goddamned facility makes it so hard for me to get ahold of you. Why do you insist on staying there? If you need to be in a hospital, ok, I get it, your health comes first. But why won't you come back to L.A.? We can get you a spot in any private recovery center you want."

"I'm st-st-staying here, Susan."

"Why? I mean with that hospital bill you're racking up, you'd probably be better off if you'd agree to transfer to a private facility."

_"Audra, b-b-baby, how are y-you?"_

_"Bad, Bill."_

_"Wuh-what's wrong."_

_"I can't keep this up. I'm so sorry, Bill. I love you so much, but I just can't." Her voice, so soft and sweet, was diminished to an almost whispered_

_"What are you s-s-s-s-s-s–" A bit spit sprayed on the phone's receiver._

"I have the money."

"Sure you do now, but if you stay in there the rest of your fucking life, the royalties will dry up eventually. Are you at least getting some work done? You better be putting all this insane asylum shit into your next book. How many pages have you written?"

"A f-f-few."

"How many?"

"Tuh-two this week."

"Two?! Christ Bill! Do you know much work I had to put into getting that damn typewriter in for you?"

"Yuh-yes, buh-but I'm sure you're itching to tell me again."

"First, I send you a laptop with the wifi capabilities disabled. They won't give it to you because it has a microphone and webcam. Then, I send an old school word processor that runs on batteries and everything. They won't give it you because you could smash it open and slice your wrists with the edge of the hard drive. Then, I send an electric keyboard. Well nuts to that too because they say you're such a suicide risk that you'll hang yourself with the fucking cord! So finally I buy you a goddamned manual typewriter from 19-fucking-52. Do you feel like a real author now? You might as well be Kilgore Trout, congratulations."

"Sh-sh-sh-sure, Suze."

"Oh, for God's sake. Are they helping you with the stutter at all? When you come back and have to do a book tour, how the hell am I supposed to explain that you can no longer spit out a full sentence properly?"

_"Why are you stuttering, honey? Can't you at least tell me that? Bill… you're breaking my heart." Her voice cracked in desperation._

_"I uh-uh-uh-uh–" Bill's throat contracted around sounds, syllables, letters– anything that could possible relay how he felt. "I cuh-can't huh-help it."_

"Muh-make something up. Yuh-you h-h-h-handled what happened at the restaurant very well."

"Yeah and you owe me. Do you know how hard that was to suppress? I had to get the other patrons to sign airtight fucking NDAs. I had to explain to Audra's agent why she was flying home traumatized. That was a lot of payouts, Bill."

_"W-w-w-why?"_

_"Everytime I close my eyes, I see your wrists. It haunts me, Bill. How could you do that to yourself? How could you have done it the way you did? It came out of nowhere. I love you, but I can't be with you anymore."_

_"Uh-uh-uh-uh– Audra. I nuh-nuh-nuh-n-nnnn-need y-yyy-yy-you buh-buh-bb-by my sssssss-ss-ss-side."_

"Ok, Suh-Susan. Next time I tuh-try to off muh-myself, I'll make sure t-to do it somewhere muh-more private."

"At least that'd be easier to make sense of." Susan had never been one to play off of sarcasm. "What made you do it, Bill? You can tell me. We've been known each other for nine years now. I'm not just your agent at this point, you're my friend."

"I cuh-cuh-c-c-consider you a fff-fuh-friend too."

_"I can't do this anymore, Bill. For my own sanity. You've been gone for over a month and you still can't tell me what's happening to you."_

_"I p-p-p-p-p–" the p's went on for a while, "–promise I'm w-working on it."_

"Look, Bill, you're going to get through this, ok? Just keep writing. You know what Hemingway said about writing?" She didn't give him time to respond. "He said, 'There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed.' So do that."

"Huh-Hemingway sucks. Huh-huh-his writing is all angst-ridden, suh-socio-political buh-b-bullcrap. I duh-don't want to buh-bleed. I ju-just want to t-tell a story."

"Fine, then. Tell a story. Use the damn typewriter. But I swear to God, if you find someway to choke yourself with the ink ribbon, I will personally kill you."

"Stuh-stop. You're g-g-giving me ideas."

"Don't say shit like that. I can't tell if you're joking anymore. I never questioned how you came up with such strange shit, it's well-written and marketable, why should I give a fuck where it comes from? But now… should I have noticed something, Bill? I can't help but feel like I've failed you."

"Duh-don't say that, Suh-Susan."

"Ok, Bill."

_"F-f-fine. Bye." The 'b' came sharp when he finally spit it out._

_"Wait–"_

"Bill, how are you today?" Dr. Koontz asked as Bill took his seat.

"Good," Bill said with a smile. "It's been a g-good day so far, at least."

"I'm happy for you, Bill. You seem to be making progress. The stutter is barely there."

"Yuh-yuh-yuh-yeah."

Koontz sighed. "So the main thing I want to address today is some notes a tech took this morning. Do you know what I'm referring to?"

"I wuh-wouldn't take a shuh-shower. Or ch-ch-ch-change my shirt. I w-w-would assume he wrote about th-that."

"You'd assume correctly. Can we talk about that?"

"Ok."

"It's about your scars, isn't it?"

"I didn't want to s-see them."

"Are you having any more suicidal thoughts?"

_Bill changed his underwear and pants, washed his hands, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair – a valiant effort indeed. At the bottom of the bathroom floor, there was a drain. On Bill's third day in the ward, a girl a few doors down shoved towels down the toilet and flushed it until the whole damn bathroom was flooded, so Bill guessed the drains were probably a smart idea. Those screws wouldn't be all that hard to remove. They really wouldn't be. The edges of the drain grate might be pretty sharp._

Bill laughed. "Yuh-you know the answer to that."

"I do. We'll get you there, Bill. I know it's tough."

"Yeah."

"Can we talk about George today?"

"There's n-n-n-n-nothing to s-s-sss-say."

Koontz sighed and wrote something on his legal pad. "You know we'll have to talk about it at some point."

"I kn-know."

"Well, let's talk about your stutter, then."

"Wuh-we've already tuh-talked about it."

"Bill, you've been here for almost nine weeks now. We've talked about everything but your brother."

"Fuh-fine. Luh-let's talk about the st-st-st-st-stutter. I wuh-was huh-hit by a car when I w-was three. I wuh-was unconscious fuh-for seven hours. That's wuh-what my m-mom says caused it."

"But you don't believe that, do you?"

"Wuh-why shuh-shouldn't I?"

"You got over the stutter, didn't you? You said in one of our earliest sessions that when you went away for college, you were finally able to overcome it. Is that correct?"

"Yuh-yes."

"And when did the stutter return?"

"Y-you know wuh-when."

"I do, but I need you to say it again."

"Wuh-when I cuh-came back to Duh-Derry. I bruh-brought Audra suh-so we could tell my f-folks about the engagement. The stuh-stutter started buh-back when we cruh-crossed city limits."

"And that's when you thought about George again, right?" Bill kept mum. "This is why we need to talk about him. All your troubles can be traced back to his death."

"P-p-please, Dr. Koontz."

"I can't force you, Bill. Let's go back to the suicidal thoughts. Can you describe them?"

"Thuh-this muh-morning when I was in the b-b-bathroom I thought about pulling the g-grate off the drain in the fuh-floor."

"And if you did that, what would you do with it?"

"Yuh-you know."

"I do, but again, it's important for you to say it."

"I wuh-was going to try and cuh-cut my wrists. Only I wuh-wasn't. I was going to tuh-try for the nuh-neck. If I hit the c-c-carotid, I wuh-would be guh-gone in minutes. M-maybe even suh-seconds."

"How long have you had these morbid thoughts?"

"I'm a huh-horror writer," Bill laughed, "I huh-have m-m-morbid thoughts for a l-living."

"I know. I found something on eBay I wanted to show you."

"Oh?"

Dr. Koontz reached into his file cabinet and pulled out the October 2009 issue of Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine and flipped to a sticky-noted section. He handed the magazine to Bill.

"Will you read me the title, Bill?"

Bill felt a curious sensation – almost as though he were a child caught in a lie. "It says: 'The Dark.'"

"And who's the author?"

"William Denbrough. What are you getting at?"

"Well, Bill, you know I read some of your novels before I started treating you and then I read the rest when you requested me to. All of them are very good, if not a bit disturbing–"

"All good horror stories are disturbing. "The Lottery" is about a woman being st-stoned to death by her community; "I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream" was all about the most disturbing things imaginable happening. Poe knew it, Lovecraft too. All the big names. Hell, even Shakespeare knew it! In "Titus Andronicus" a girl is murdered by her father for being raped."

"You're very passionate about horror literature."

"Like I said, it's my career."

"I'm going to call attention to something. Can you guess what it is?"

"What?"

"The stutter. The whole time you were talking about that you didn't stutter once. I've noticed this in a few of our other sessions. When you speak about something you're extremely passionate about, like horror fiction, you seem to forget about it completely."

"I'm n-n-not f-f-f-f-f-FUCK! _Je ne fais pas semblant._ I am not faking it."

"I know you aren't, Bill. I think it's a symptom of your disorder."

"Ok. C-c-can you p-put this away now?" Bill handed Dr. Koontz the magazine.

"There's more to talk about. You've told me about every single thing you've ever had published, you swore you did. I went home and read all of it. You're very talented, your work sells well, you seem to be proud of your career."

"I am."

"Then what about this? You never told me about this one story. From the date, I can tell it's your first publication, so I can hardly imagine it slipping from mind. I was going through your bibliography on your website to make sure I'd read everything, it wasn't even listed there."

"Then h-h-how'd you find out about it? Yuh-you stalking me nuh-now?"

"I went through your Wikipedia page. I hope that isn't an invasion of privacy."

"It is."

"Nevertheless, in Wikipedia's bibliography of your work, "The Dark," is the first piece listed. Asimov's is a highly respected magazine, less than 1% of unsolicited pieces are published. You were still in college when they bought this story from you. That's quite an accomplishment. So when I saw it on your Wikipedia page, I couldn't believe you hadn't told me about it. So I searched through magazine back issues until I found this one on eBay. The bid went up to $300. You should be proud that your first published piece is so lucrative."

"I'm guh-good at what I do."

"You are. I read the piece already, by the way. But I'd like you to tell me about it."

"Wuh-what do you want to hear? Y-y-y-you s-said you already r-read it and I l-like to think my w-work is good enough t-to speak for itself."

"What is the story about, Bill?"

"It's about the d-d-dark. It's right there in the tuh-title."

"No, it's about a young  boy who discovers a monster in the cellar of his house. The little boy tells his family, but they don't believe him. Then one day, when his big brother isn't watching, the boy is lured out of the house and murdered. Morbid, indeed. This is about your brother, Bill."

"It's a wuh-work of f-f-f-f-f-f-f-fiction."

"Yes, but it's inspired by the murder of your brother. You didn't want to tell me about it because you knew I would see right through you. We need to talk about George, Bill. You're not going to get better until we do."

_"Bill, baby… why didn't you tell me you have a brother?"_

_"Huh-had."_

_"What?"_

_"I h-h-had a brother."_

It was lunch now. Bill hadn't had anything to drink yet today. It'd been a couple of days since he'd eaten. He was ok thought, really, he was. His mouth was no longer dry; he was no longer hungry. He stared at his plate and picked up his apple.

"Hey, Mike?"

"Huh, what?"

"You look a little out of it."

"I guess I am."

"Did Beverly get out alright?"

Mike smiled. "Yeah, you should've seen her. She's so ready to get out of here."

"I don't blame her." Bill smiled too, but there was something sad beneath it. "Hey, do you want my apple?"

Stan kicked him under the table.

_"Are you eating?" Koontz prodded._

_"Yes."_

_"Look, Bill. I can see how thin you're getting." Koontz gave another one of his famous, world-weary sighs. "I don't get to observe you during meal times and the staff here isn't trained to recognize symptoms."_

He looked at his reflection and let out a heavy sigh. His skin was paler than he'd ever seen it, so much so that his veins danced across his eyelids. The rice-paper skin beneath his eyes was an almost glowing violet. It might be beautiful in a purely objective sense – but on his face, it was haggard. His red hair had gone dull from lack of sun exposure. On the seventh floor, patients were on strict lockdown, so it'd been eighty-two days since he'd taken a breath of fresh air. He'd lost weight, a lot of it too. Bill supposed he must've dropped a good fifteen or twenty pounds. Maybe more. There was one good thing though – no one gave a fuck how awful you looked.

_"This facility isn't certified for treatment of eating disorders."_

_"I duh-don't huh-have an eating duh-disorder."_

Bill let Richie pick the fries off his plate.

_"You were thin when you got here. You're definitely underweight now."_

_"I don't care how I luh-look. It duh-d-doesn't matter to me huh-how muh-much I wuh-weigh. I'm nuh-not scared of wuh-weight gain."_

He handed Eddie half his sandwich. When no one was looking, he wrapped the other half in a napkin.

_"I know. There are many different types of eating disorders. In your case, I believe that anorexia is a symptom of the depression, but that doesn't make it any less serious. I'm order a physical exam."_

_"Fuh-fine."_

_"Have you put any more thought into transferring to another facility? You know as well as I do that Derry Home Hospital's mental health unit does not have the best resources. Somewhere directed towards long-term recovery would be much better fit to serve your needs. This facility is meant to be for mental health emergencies. Now you're considered to be in an extended crisis, so we won't kick you out, but you may not be able to recover in this hospital."_

_"I nuh-nuh-need to stay in Duh-Derry."_

_"Why?"_

_"I cuh-can't leave him. Not again."_

_"Are you talking about George?"_

_"Cuh-can we muh-move on?"_

_"Ok. But I will be keeping a careful eye on you. From here on out you're going to have weekly weigh-ins. If your weight is deemed dangerous, I will have to insist on your transfer to a facility with a feeding clinic."_

"Bill… the last time I saw you, you were so thin…"

"Uh-uh-uh-a-a-a-Audra…"

_"How's Audra?" Dr. Koontz moved on. "You haven't talked about her in awhile. Is she still being supportive?"_

"I know. I'm sorry. But…"

"Buh-but you're bbb-bb-breaking up with me."

_"We broke up."_

_"I'm sorry to hear that, Bill. When did you break up?"_

_"Last week."_

"Bill… I'm sorry. Bill?"

_"Bill?"_

"Bill?"

_"Denbrough?"_

_"Suh-sorry?"_

_"You're William Denbrough, aren't you?"_

_Patrick caught Bill at dinner before he could go to The Loser's table. Richie and Eddie didn't notice him lagging behind. Being around Patrick gave Bill an icy shiver. 82 days had shown Bill all sorts of scary people, but Patrick was different. He was quieter. Sly. Snake-ish._

_"We don't use last names here."_

_"But you're him. You're William Denbrough." Patrick smiled that awful smile of his._

_"Yuh-yeah. You cuh-caught me." He tried to introduce a playful tone, but Patrick stared him down. Bill though his voice almost sounded scared. "Are you a f-f-fuh-fan of my work?"_

_"Your mother is Sharon Denbrough and your father is Zachary Denbrough."_

_Bill chuckled nervously. "Yuh-yuh-yeah. Superfan, are yuh-you?"_

_"It's all public information, Mr. Denbrough."_

_"Uh, cuh-cuh-could you actually not use muh-my last name? It's juh-just that I'm tuh-trying to keep a sort-of luh-low profile."_

_"Sure, Billy. I don't mind."_

_"Ok. Thanks." Bill gave him a tight smile, but Patrick didn't take it as a cue to leave. "Uh, I'm guh-guh-going–"_

_"Why do you stutter, Billy? I've seen your interviews. You don't stutter in them."_

_"I'm suh-s-ss-s-ss--" Bill couldn't make his throat complete the word without choking on it._

_"Your brother was Georgie, right?"_

_"W-w-w-w-wuh–"_

_"I keep up with true crime. Your brother was murdered, isn't that right?"_

_Bill sputtered. "Wuh-w-w-w–"_

_"I'm sorry, Billy. I didn't want to upset you. They say his body was missing an arm. Is that true? I also read that you found his body, isn't that right? And the police report says that you suspected that the murderer had previously been inside your home. The basement, correct?"_

_"Puh-puh-p-p-ppp–"_

_"I'm sorry, Billy. I didn't mean to upset you. I just really like true crime. Forensic Files and all that crap. They always get the reenactments wrong though, but what can you do?"_

"How are yuh-you huh-holding up?"

"God… I don't know. I thought I was doing okay today… it felt… I don't know, almost normal? Almost like a really weird summer camp. But then Richie…"

 _Bill finally sat for dinner. Patrick sauntered off to his own table alone, staring at Bill all the while. Bill focused on his tray. He felt no hunger at all. He was lightheaded, just a bit_ . _His shoulder muscles were caught in unrelenting tenseness and he could very nearly feel his heart pound against his sternum. He felt like he'd retch if he even tried eating._

_He took the paper lid off. Stan whispered something in his ear. He took a sip._

_"That's disgusting!" Richie said with his mouth full. Stan shot a glare at him. "I mean the tea here is just awful."_

_"Yeah," added Mike. "My dad used to make the best sweet tea when I was a kid."_

_"No way!" said Richie. "My mom made me sweat tea too."_

_"Anything's better than this. How can you drink it?" Eddie asked._

_Bill pushed the tea away._

_Richie pulled five packets of sugar off his tray. Bill tried to imagine how Richie had managed to convince the kitchen to give him so many, but couldn't come up with anything. He smiled. Richie ripped them open and poured the sugar into Bill's tea. He stirred it in with his plastic knife – unserrated of course._

_"There ya go, Billy!" Richie handed him back his tea._

_Bill laughed._

_"Thu-that's disgusting." He pushed the cup away. "Duh-does anyone wuh-want sugar water?" Bill called out._

_Vic took the offer up._

"Ruh-Richie'll buh-be ok."

It was Bill and Eddie up together in the common room tonight. Damn that schedule, it must've been midnight or so. Eddie was anxious and Bill knew that staying up and talking could help with that. He also knew that whenever Eddie mustered the courage to go back to his room, he would have to face Richie collapsed in bed. If the Trazadone was the strong stuff, that made Ativan industrial strength. Richie was dead to the world for at least another five hours.

"I guess. I hope. If I tell you something, you won't think I'm crazy, will you?"

"Yuh-you cuh-can tuh-tell me anything. I've puh-pretty much heard it all."

"I think I like Richie. Like maybe I love him."

_"Ruh-Richie? Are yuh-you guh-going to be okay?" Bill asked as The Losers settled down in the dining room for snack. They were all pretty shaken. Beverly was resting her head on Mike's shoulders as silent tears tracked down her face. Stan, Eddie, and Bill were trying to get Richie to talk. He'd been silent since his little rant ended._

_"Is the Ativan kicking in yet?" Stan asked._

_"Is he catatonic?" Eddie sounded panicky._

_"Catatonic?" Dion's ears perked up from across the room. "Is Richie alright? Do I need to get a nurse?"_

_"Nuh-no."_

_"He isn't catatonic. Come on, Rich. You want to back me up here?" Stan tapped on his friend's shoulder._

_Richie sniffled. "I'm still here," he said._

_"Oh thank Christ. You scared me, Richie," Eddie said._

_"Sorry."_

_"Duh-don't apologize, Richie." Bill picked the Fig Newton off his plate and handed it to Richie. Richie ate it._

_Richie looked at Beverly and moved to sit next to her._

_"What's up, buttercup?" he asked her with a listless laugh. Bill could swear he saw Eddie's heart melt when Richie saw him do that._

"Is it insane to love someone you only just met?"

Bill liked Eddie's idea of insanity. It was sweet and innocent. Bill said a silent prayer to a God he didn't believe in that there would be no breakdowns during the rest of Eddie's stay. Sometimes, just seeing someone else in a psychotic break could trigger all sorts of things. Bill should know. But for now, talking with Eddie would be good. Normal conversations were good.

"You're guh-gay?" Bill asked.

"Oh– uh yeah. I'm not 100% out, but I figured in here, nobody knows me anyway. It isn't a problem, is it?"

"Nuh-no," Bill laughed. "That's nuh-not what I'm guh-getting at. I'm actually buh-bisexual."

"Oh. Then what?"

"Have you ever huh-had a buh-boyfriend?"

"No."

"Huh-have you ever kissed another buh-boy?"

"No."

"Duh-do you know any other guh-gay people?"

"No. But most people in Derry don't exactly talk about things like that… what's your point?"

"Yuh-you know Richie's attracted to muh-men. He duh-doesn't hide it in the least. Suh-so he's the fuh-first person you know is like yuh-you in that regard. And yuh-you guys huh-have become close in an incredibly shuh-short amount of time buh-because of circumstance. Puh-people think they fall in luh-love a lot in here. It's juh-just what happens wuh-when we're forced into such closeness. Friendships in huh-here are intense and buh-brief. Luh-liking suh-someone sometimes gets confused with luh-loving suh-someone when yuh-you finally muh-meet someone who you is luh-like you. Thuh-that's why I asked if yuh-you're gay."

"You're really smart, Bill." Eddie looked at him with moon eyes and Bill wondered if maybe Eddie was falling a little in love with more than just Richie.

"Wuh-whenever we suh-see someone like ourselves, we're drawn to them. Wuh-when yuh-you're gay in a town like Duh-Derry, sometimes just finding another guh-guy who's attracted to muh-men is enough to suh-send yuh-you head over heels."

"What about you? I don't what to pry or anything…"

"Yuh-you're okay, Eddie. Really, you are."

"Well last night, Richie and I were talking, he said you'd been in here for like 80 days or something."

"82."

"Yeah. He said that you wouldn't be offended if I asked… why are you here? I mean it's just that you're so wise and so put together… I feel like I'm coming apart at the fucking seams, but you're just so normal. Richie told us yesterday why he came here and it was just nuts, ya know? What about you?"

"Wuh-well, I'm fuh-from Duh-Derry, but I live in L.A. I cuh-came home to introduce muh-my fiance – or r-rahter, my ex-fiance – tuh-to my puh-parents. I was normal, b-but cuh-coming home just triggered suh-something in me I guess. Anyway, Audra, shu-she was my fiance, and I wuh-went to buh-breakfast before we were suh-supposed to meet up with my puh-parents. Muh-my mind juh-just sort-of j-jolted out of me and suh-suddenly, I'd  broke a glass and took a shard to my wrist in the middle of the restaurant."

"Holy shit."

Bill huffed. "Yuh-yeah. I'd nuh-never had mental health issues b-before. Cuh-classic breakdown, I guess."

_"Bill? Bill, are you okay? What was Patrick saying?"_

_"I-i-i-iii-- I duh-dd-d-d–"_

_"Shit, you're okay."_

_Stan was sitting him down. He put his hand on Bill's shoulder. "You're okay, Bill. Resnicoff, remember?"_

_Bill came back. He smiled. "Yuh-yeah. Resnicoff."_

_In the short time since Stan had become a resident at the seventh floor, he and Bill had grown close. Bill had made plenty of fleeting friends in his 82 days, and he was sure that Stan was no different, but it was good. It was nice. So many people had filtered in and out of the ward. So much comradery gained, so many inside jokes formed, so many stories shared – all gone in not time at all. Usually 72 hours. But he liked Stan a lot._

_"Resnicoff," Stan whispered again for good measure. "Yesterday… with Victor… thank you for being there. Thank you for saying that."_

_Resnicoff had become a secret little code between them. A safeword in the least sexy sense. On Stan's first night, Vic gave him a pretty good scare. Late that night, when it'd been just the two of them in the common room, scheduled lights out gone to hell, Stan had told Bill what kept him strong; what kept him grounded._

"I know  it's probably stupid, but whenever I feel myself about to lose my grip, I think about Arnold Resnicoff. He's a rabbi who was in the military as an officer and chaplain. He was in the barracks in Beirut that were bombed in 1983. He took off his kippah and used it to wipe the blood off of the faces of wounded Marines. It was ruined after that, of course. But in the midst of all the fear, and terror, and confusion, another chaplain, a catholic named George Pucciarelli, tore off a piece of his uniform and placed it on Resnicoff's head. Pucciarelli grounded him by doing that. When I think about that story, it grounds me too. It doesn't always work, but it helps."

_Since then, Resnicoff had become a sort of source of strength for Bill too._

_"Resnicoff," Bill whispered back._

"Have you had anymore instances of depersonalization?" Koontz asked. "What about derealization?"

"Uh-anyone who's buh-been in huh-here long enough stuh-starts to depersonalize. I huh-haven't seen the sun in 82 duh-days. At suh-some point it just all blurs together."

"This is another reason I want to transfer you, Bill. I don't see how I can continue treating you. You either need to start talking about your brother or accept that you need to be somewhere more intensive."

"I'll th-th-th-think about it."

"When you first got here, you were desperate to die."

"Yuh-yeah. I was."

"You threatened to kill the EMTs who brought you here if they tried to save you. You ripped out your stitches so many times "

"Whuh-why are you b-b-b-b-b-b-bringing this up? I admitted to thuh-thinking about the drain grate, buh-but I didn't take it apart. I d-d-din't even try."

"You're not eating, Bill. You hardly seem upset that your fiance left you. You refuse to leave Derry. You're barely writing. In some ways, yes, you're improving. When you first got here, we had to put head restraints on so you wouldn't try bite the nurses caring for you."

"Yuh-yes. Thuh-thank you for remind me of my Hannibal Lecter moment. Are you g-g-g-going to blame it on m-me reading too much Thomas Harris?"

Koontz ignored the deflection. "In all my years here, I never saw someone who had so much going for them and with no history of mental illness try so hard to die. Now, you're doing so well that the staff is even considering letting you get ready in the mornings on your own. I thought you were getting better too, but with the aversion to food… I have to wonder, are you really just trying to take the long way out? Do you feel that you failed your brother so significantly that you do not deserve to live?"

"I duh-don't wuh-want to continue this s-s-s-s-s-s-ss-session. I'll eat d-dinner tt-tt-tt-tonight."

"I hope you do. Well, I'll see you in a few days. Happy 82nd day, Bill."

_When Eddie finally went to go to sleep, Bill took his Trazodone. Before the pill took him, he pulled his typewriter up in bed and punched in two characters. He ripped the paper from the machine. It read: 82. He placed it on top of the stack next to his bed. The sheet on the bottom was written in crayon on a wordsearch, it said: 1. Number five was written on his transfer from Ward B to Ward A._

_As he put away the typewriter, Bill reached into his pocket and found Ben's note. He smiled and unfolded it._

Bill–

I just wanted to thank you for caring for all of us. You are so selfless and kind. I know you'll do great things when you get out.

–Ben

P.S. Thank you for all our conversations. I love everyone else in our little loser's club, but it was nice talking to someone genuinely normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: depression, suicidal ideation, dissociative-like episode, mention of the murder of a child


	5. Act Two, Scene One: Adagio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan is ready to get better.

 

# Act Two, Scene One: Adagio

 

Stan was already making his bed when the tech came in to wake him up. If the seventh floor couldn't maintain a schedule, someone had to. Sure he didn't wake up to the sounds of birds chirping outside his window, but he closed the deviation from normal as much as he could.

"Good morning, Joseph," Stan smiled as he greeted the tech. He was on a first name basis with everyone in the facility, a fact he took pride in, even though he'd been there a week and had had plenty of time to do such.

Stan finished tucking the corners of his blanket into the thin mattress. In Ward A, all the beds were hospital beds. In Ward B, they had flatbeds, Bill had told him as such. Stan had a lot of theories as to why this was. It could have been the relative shortness of the average stay of an A Warder or it might have been the fact that A Warders were often a suicide risk. Neither theory made total sense, but like most curiosities on the seventh floor, there was no way of being sure. Stan had to believe the administrators had a logical explanation behind the decision. He just had to.

"Good morning, Stanley," Joseph smiled back and handed Stan his ziploc. Stan's mom had dropped his personal belongings off the second that he had been transferred from the third floor surgery recovery center to the seventh floor behavioral health center. "Remember to check them back just as soon as your done, ok?"

Stan smiled and nodded. He was a good patient

_(no you're not)_

and always followed the rules. As a result, the techs trusted him enough not to drink his shampoo in a suicide attempt. So that was nice. The closest he ever got to breaking a rule in the ward was when he kept mum about a pencil he saw Ben tuck into the waistband of his pants so he could write down his thoughts in privacy. Now that Ben was gone, Stan kept the pencil hidden in the tight folds on his mattress corners. He didn't need the pencil – whenever he wanted to write or draw anything, he felt perfectly comfortable doing it in the common room, but there was something almost liberating about having that secret pencil. Stan wondered if that's how Richie felt all the time.

He looked to the now empty other side of the room. It'd been nice to have Ben around. They'd gotten along more than Stan could have hoped and Ben hadn't even minded

_(he was lying)_

the fact that Stan's morning routine could take upwards of an hour.

Stan went into the bathroom and closed the door, revelling in the soft click it made when it shut. If there was one unignorable issue with the procedures on the seventh floor, Stan knew it was the inability to close the bedroom doors. Yes, he understood the purpose and even agreed with its utilitarian reasoning, but an ajar door was just so _niggling._ He could straighten his few possessions and make his bed as tidy as physically possible – and yes, the furniture was mounted to the floor and walls in permanent straightness, but the damn doors with their jutted lip openness could drive Stan crazy. He didn't mind the techs making their rounds in the middle of the night and as long as he was still awake, he made sure to greet them politely, but he dearly lamented the fact that when they left, they wouldn't bother to leave the door in the exact 30 degree acute angle Stan found most tolerable. But that's why he was here. He was going to get better. He had to. Going off the frequency of the tech's checks, it only took him forty-five minutes to shower this morning and that was something.

_(it probably wasn't forty-five minutes. even if the tech did check every fifteen minutes, his watch might run too fast. or too slow.)_

_(it's fine. it doesn't matter.)_

_(sure, maybe it doesn't, but don't you want to rip your skin open, just in case?)_

Stan took a breath. And another. And another. That awful tickle in the back of his brain demanded he take another shower, but he did not. He pictured his bird book. He no longer carried it around with him as he had as a boy, but sometimes just the memory was enough to bring something akin to comfort.

_(Page 74. No other bird resembles the large black-and-white Magpie with its sweeping tail.)_

A breath out.

 

* * *

 

The A Warders got to breakfast first. Richie wasn't doing well. He emerged from his and Eddie's bedroom unshowered and wrapped in his blanket. Bill very nearly had to carry him to the dining room. Stan couldn't tell how much of Richie's sudden mood collapse was the lingering Ativan, and much was… well.

"Ruh-R-Richie, it's ok."

Richie looked at him with watery eyes. "I know, Bill. I'll perk up. I always do."

The B Warders came in. Vic, Henry, and Reg sat at their table. Patrick found his perch. Mike took his seat with the losers.

"Wuh-where's Bev?" Bill was the first to ask. He had that gorgeous confident smile on again. Stan wasn't sure if he bought it. Still, Bill couldn't charm the worried thoughts out of Stan.

"She didn't come out of her room this morning. I asked the tech why, but he wouldn't tell me."

"You don't think…" Eddie didn't finish his sentence, but he didn't have to. Stan's mind was whirring up all the same.

_(she's cracked.)_

_(she hasn't.)_

_(yes, but maybe she did.)_

"Nuh-n-no. If sh-sh-she hurt herself, wuh-we'd know." Stan knew as well as Bill that that was a lie. But it calmed the rest of the table enough.

Stan went to work on his food. He'd ordered the same thing he always did in the seventh floor: yogurt, cheerios, and fruit. The yogurt and cheerios were nicely packed in their still-sealed containers and were easy to tackle, but the fruit wasn't taking today. In the cup, all kinds of berries were mingled in a strange, random order.

_(it's contaminated and you know it. fix it.)_

_(if i flip the cup over and start sorting, i'll just be giving in. besides, the kitchen here is good. just because they couldn't bother to order their fruit doesn't mean it's contaminated.)_

_(sure, but the kitchen is in the basement. that's eight floors the techs have to travel with the food cart, anything could have happened between then.)_

_(the fruit bowl is covered with cling wrap–)_

_(yeah but it isn't airtight.)_

_(Page 78. The Chickadee, a constant visitor to feeding stations, often feed upside down.)_

A breath out.

Stan didn't push the fruit. He hoped that tomorrow morning they'd give him a nice, perfectly yellow banana.

Bill was making an effort though, and that was good. It gave Stan a feeling akin to hope. He watched with careful eyes as Bill drank nearly all of his tea. Richie wasn't talking at all, babbling on about tasteless tea wasn't even bubbling to the surface. If Stan had to guess, Richie didn't even notice Bill was drinking it.

"Richie, do you want some fruit?" Stan tried to coax something out of him, but it was a no go. Richie ate his waffles in silence. Eddie scooched a little closer to him. Stan missed Ben.

_(he doesn't miss you)_

_(yes he does, in a perfectly normal type of way. you lived together for three days, it'd be strange if he didn't miss you.)_

Bill finished the tea. He toasted Stan with the empty cup.

"T-to Resnicoff," Bill whispered.

"To Resnicoff," Stan whispered. He allowed himself a smile.

"Did Beverly tell you what happened in court?" Eddie asked. Stan didn't miss the fact that he rubbed at his hands as he did.

"Kind of. She was pretty shaken up and said that 'he' came. I think she was talking about her dad."

"This world is piece of motherfucking shit." Richie emerged from his blanket and pointed to them with his plastic-excuse-of-a-fork.

"There he is," Stan said. "Welcome back, Rich."

"Boo." Richie wrapped himself back up.

"Oh, uh Richie, do you want to tell us a story?" Eddie looked at him with doe eyes. "Or I could tell one?"

"Ok, Swaghetti." Richie tried a smile. "Tell me a joke."

"Well… when I got here, you know how they do inventory on all the stuff you have? Well they wrote down that I had six dollars. Isn't that funny? Like wow, I'm so rich, they must keep track of my momentous wealth. Funny, right?" Eddie's voice wavered.

Richie laughed. It was subdued and quiet, but Stan swore he could see Eddie's heart soar.

"They have to be thorough," Richie explained. "Like they write down every single thing you have. On my form, they wrote 'charred cigarette in pocket.' And in case you're wondering, I will sue if I don't get it back."

After breakfast, the techs did their daily check ups. The A Warders gathered around the table in the common room as Joseph took their temperatures.

Eddie was a perfect 98º; Richie was a troubling 94º.

"Doesn't that mean I'm dead?" Richie laughed. It was a good noise to hear. "Like I'm dead inside, does that mean I'm dead on the outside too?" That was a little less good, but it made them all laugh, just the same.

"It means you drank a lot of ice water at breakfast. I'll do yours again after Stan." Joseph gave Stan a reassuring glance. Stan repressed a flinch. Even though the tech made a show of snapping his latex gloves and putting a clean cover on the thermometer, Stan still felt his heart rate pick up.

It wasn't the germs that got him, Stan really didn't mind germs all that terribly, and he wasn't all that scared of getting sick. There was just so little left to control in a place where you had to ask just to get a cup of water. If that redirected his compulsions, well he'd have to find a way to deal. He let Joseph take his temperature. 98.3º. It was a good read, but the thermometer he had at home went to three decimal points, which was much better.

Richie went again and Joseph confirmed that he was indeed alive. Joseph moved on to the blood pressure cuff.

"Uh, J-Joseph? Thuh-think you f-forgot muh-me," Bill's charming smile fell flat.

Joseph checked his sheet. "No, Bill. Dr. Koontz ordered a full physical. They'll take your temp then."

"When are they going to do that?" Stan asked.

Joseph shrugged.

_(it doesn't matter. it's Bill's business anyway.)_

_(but it does matter. they can't even stick to schedule, what if they forget Bill altogether? he's been wearing that same shirt for days. it doesn't sit quite right on him. what if he's really sick? what if you don't fix his shirt and he dies? what if, what if, what if–)_

_(Page 60. The Ruby-Throated Hummingbirds are gems of beauty and marvels in flight.)_

Stan tugged on his ear. A breath out.

 

* * *

A nurse took Bill to his appointment a few minutes before morning group. Beverly wasn't at morning group either.

"Where is she?" Stan asked Mike. "They have to tell you something."

"I don't know. I'm starting to get worried. I overheard them saying they needed to bring in a female tech, but there's only one who works in the whole hospital and she's in the trauma recovery center."

"Are they getting her?" Stan asked.

_(she might be dead.)_

_(she isn't dead.)_

_(but she might be.)_

_(Page 24. The Green Heron lives and nests alone.)_

A breath out.

"They sent in a few female nurses. When we got back from breakfast, the door to her bedroom was closed."

"Oh my God," Eddie panicked. "What if she had a heart attack? Or an aneurysm??? Oh my God, what if she gave birth and that's why they needed a female tech?!"

"Eddie," Stan stopped him. "Listen to yourself. Bev's not pregnant; she didn't give birth. She's fine."

"She could have had a miscarriage! Or what if she's having, I don't know, lady troubles?"

"Eddie, have you ever seen a vagina?" that was Richie.

Eddie blushed deep red. "All I'm saying is that she could be really sick. You don't think she has anything contagious, do you? Maybe they've quarantined her! What if she's patient zero and there's a new plague–" Eddie used his inhaler and seemed to calm down a bit.

"She'll be okay," Mike said.

"Yeah, Eddie. Se's probably still upset from yesterday. Court can be stressful, especially when you lose."

A social worker came in and handed out worksheets.

 

* * *

 

In the lull after morning group, Stan peeled away to make a phone call. He dialled the number and hung up before it could ring three times for good measure. He let the fourth call go through. It rang so long that Stan was scared it'd go to voicemail, but his dad finally picked up.

_"Stanley? What are you doing?"_

"Hi dad, we're having a little break right now and I wanted to check on you and mom. I was hoping she could bring me my bird book later today…

_(you don't need it)_

_(you do)_

_(you don't)_

_(you do. it helps.)_

and maybe you guys could visit too. Everyone's in kind of a bummer mood today–"

 _"Why are you on the phone?"_ The realization hit Stan as soon as the words came from his father's mouth.

"Shit, I'm sorry–"

_"Could you try not cursing?"_

_(that poster is crooked.)_

_(it doesn't matter.)_

_(maybe not. but it's_ really _crooked.)_

_"Stanley! You call me on Shabbat and then you don't even bother with an explanation."_

"I'm sorry dad. I'm really sorry."

_(you need to fix the poster.)_

_(i don't.)_

_(you do.)_

Stan fixed the poster.

His father sighed on the other side. _"I just don't understand how you can remember to brush your teeth five times a day but somehow every saturday I find you turning on and off the lights like a damn electrician."_

_(Mockingbird. Catbird.)_

"I'm sorry dad, I can't help it. I really can't."

_"Ok, Stanley, sure. Excuse the damn electricity, but what about the phone call, huh? Did you not realize it's saturday? Or do you just not care?"_

"I'm sorry. I'll be better."

_"Could you stop this self-pitying? If you say you're going to be better, you actually have to be better. Ok? I'm not mad at you, I'm just trying to help you. Now take the rest of the day off. You don't need to go to any of those therapies they make you do. No work, Stanley, ok? If they try to make you, we'll sue. Now, are you staying kosher?"_

_(Purple Finch. cooper hawk.)_

_(the poster's still crooked.)_

"Yes sir."

_"And you're saying your prayers?"_

_(brewer blackbird.)_

_(fix it.)_

"Yes sir."

_"In Hebrew?"_

_(mourning dove.)_

_(rip your skin off.)_

"Yes sir."

_"Alright. I'm sorry for being stern, but it's important to remember these things, Stanley. Your mother and I can visit tomorrow."_

"Ok dad… could I… could I speak to mom?" Stan straightened the poster again.

_"Stanley, come on. You've already ruined your own Shabbat as well as mine. Let her have hers."_

"Yes dad."

_"Ok, Stan. We'll see you tomorrow. I'll make sure we bring your bird book. I took some pictures of the bird feeders too. We got some purple martins, I'll show you."_

Stan smiled and pushed back the tears. "That's great dad, I can't wait." He smiled. "Are you sure they're purple martins? Last time you told me you saw one it was a crow."

The rabbi laughed. "You've always been our little ornithologist. I think they're purple martins, but you can explain it all to me tomorrow. I've got to go now. I love you, Stanley."

_(he doesn't)_

"I love you too, dad."

_(the poster's still crooked.)_

* * *

 

Stan went to morning group anyway. It gave him a little thrill.

_(really stan? that's what does it? you ought to be ashamed.)_

_(no, it isn't shameful. it's making a decision for myself. there are worse things.)_

_(yeah but this is pretty bad.)_

_(it isn't.)_

_(it kinda is.)_

_(look at richie. he hasn't combed his hair.)_

_(that's his business)_

_(maybe. but couldn't he have at least soothed it a bit so his curls were even? see? the left side is poofing more than the right. and his glasses are crooked.)_

_(the cushions are uneven.)_

_(vic's pant leg is coming unhemmed.)_

_(Bill isn't here. Bill's shirt doesn't sit quite right. he's been gone a while. he's probably dead.)_

Stan spent enough time straightening his cushion for Vic to have to tap him to regain his attention.

"Hi, Stan," he said.

"Hi, Victor," Stan returned through a tight lipped smile. His scalp still ached from where his kippah had been ripped from his hair.

_(Bill probably lied. i bet you do have a bald spot.)_

_(no. Bill wouldn't lie. besides i checked with my fingers i would have noticed.)_

_(sure, but the hair had to come from somewhere. you better check.)_

_(i don't need to. i already know it's fine)_

_(you don't)_

"Henry says your a kike and that's bad, but I don't think I believe him anymore." Vic looked at him with wide eyes. Henry glowered at them from across the room. Reg stayed by his side, but Vic's near dissent was interesting to say the least. A ray of hope? Maybe.

_(there is a bald spot. I just know it.)_

_(no, there isn't. you already checked.)_

_(it could have appeared since then.)_

_(what about some birds?)_

_(page 46. the white head and tail marks the adult bald eagle.)_

"I think Henry's been telling you a lot of lies."

Vic smiled. Stan tried to place his expression.

Acceptance? Realization? Disillusionment?

_(probably not)_

Stan could've sworn he felt the cushion's weight uneven beneath him.

_(you didn't do it right. you have to do it again.)_

_(it's fine. stay seated.)_

_(get up. do it again.)_

_(it's wrong.)_

_(it's ugly.)_

_(it's uneven.)_

_(richie's glasses)_

_(vic's pants)_

_(the poster)_

_(the cushion)_

_(Bill's shirt)_

_(Bill's eyes are uneven too. did you ever notice?)_

_(they aren't.)_

_(they are. his left one is slightly more hooded than the right. you noticed. it's all you can see when you look at him. they're crooked. you're crooked. you know the way you look at everyone else? well that's how everyone sees you.)_

_(crooked.)_

_(cracked.)_

* * *

 

"How have you been doing?" Dr. Koontz asked as Stan adjust the cushion of his chair three times before sitting.

_(you should probably do it once more just to be sure)_

Four times.

_(again.)_

Five.

_(again.)_

Six.

_(it's still wrong)_

"I'm not at where I want to be." Stan sat.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Stan. Are you dealing with the same thoughts? Balance–"

"Symmetry. I need symmetry."

"Right, symmetry. The intrusive thoughts are related to a lack of symmetry and harmony, correct?"

"Yes."

"And the compulsion is to straighten, yes?"

"Yes."

"Are you seeing improvements?"

"I was. I ignored almost all of them this morning, but it's gotten harder."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Stanley. Have you been able to identify any triggers?"

"I called my dad. Before that the compulsions were manageable."

"Describe the phone call."

"Well it's the sabbath today. My father is a rabbi and my family is very observant. We're not supposed to make phone calls on the sabbath. We're not supposed to work either. I think my father would be very upset if he knew I was doing this session."

"Well Stan, you know I have no problem accommodating your religious needs. If we need to switch your appointments, I can make that happen."

"I don't want to do that. I'm not giving up my religion… it's an important part of who I am… but I want to work on myself. I want to get better. I _want_ to work on saturdays. Does that make me a bad Jew?"

"You know I can't give you religious advice. We can call a rabbi for you–"

"My father is the only rabbi in town. Can you answer me? Please? I'm not going to tell anyone if you do."

"Let's examine this wish. You're seeking validation, correct?"

"I guess I am."

"Now do you have intrusive thoughts about your religion? When you do things like making a phone call on the sabbath, or talk to me when you know your religious father would disapprove, does that invoke a negative thought?"

"No. It doesn't. I don't know why, maybe it should, but it truly doesn't."

"Ok. Now let's go back to the phone call. Does your father put a lot of stress on you?"

"Yes."

"And that stress comes from what he perceives to be improper adherence to Judaism?"

"Yes."

"And this phone call triggered you?"

"Yes. It confuses me. It all confuses me. I almost wish my compulsions were connected to my religion. At least it'd make more sense. This… it's illogical, isn't it? "

"It doesn't have to be. Let's work together to try to find the connection."

"Ok."

"Can you remember your earliest compulsions?"

"Yes, at least I think. I started little league when I was five." Stan paused.

"Baseball can be a dirty sport. Did that bother you?"

"No. I didn't mind. I really liked sliding into bases and running through the dust. It felt like flying. I didn't getting dirty all that much, so long as I could change afterwards."

"Then what were your intrusive thoughts about?"

"Well, before we would play, the coach would have us stretch. We'd reach over and touch our toes, stuff like that. I liked stretching, but the coach always did it wrong."

"How so?"

"Well he was very inattentive. Like we'd stretch our left leg for five seconds and then we'd stretch our right for only three. Or we'd stretch our triceps ten times on the right and then only eight on the left. It wasn't the first time I felt that niggling little itch of unevenness, but it's the earliest one I can recall clearly."

"And how did you deal with this itch?"

"Well I guess it started my first compulsion. I would have to even it out. My coach would yell at me for taking extra time but I was too young to be able to explain that I _had_ to do it that way. It's wrong to do it uneven."

"But you know that in the grand scheme of things, it isn't terrible to have a bit of discrepancy in exercises."

"I know."

"So back then, as a child, you developed the straightening compulsions?"

"Yes."

"How often did you act on them?"

"Well as I got older, I realized how much it made other people uncomfortable when I had to make things even. I would point out little things, like how my mom's earlobes were uneven when she wore heavier earrings. I could deal with it better back then."

"How?"

"When I was ten, my mom got me a bird book and binoculars. Birds are beautiful creatures, you know? And they have an almost perfect bilateral symmetry. Take the Blue Jay's feather pattern, doesn't it amaze you that something so perfect can come from nature? And the way they beat their wings in perfect unison is so… good. I can't find another word to describe it."

"So bird-watching helped relieve the intrusive thoughts?"

"Yes. I never think of the fractures in this world when I see a bird. Whenever the thoughts would get to loud, I could calm self down by just holding it close and going through all the birds in my head. I carried that old book around for years. Now it's spine is all cracked and it's cover is faded, but I still love it. It's the only crooked thing I've ever loved."

"When did the thoughts grow so loud that the birds reached their limitations of helping you?"

"I don't know. Things just got… louder. When I was thirteen, my father started putting more stress on me as my Bar Mitzvah approached. I wasn't as interested as learning Hebrew as I should have been and I didn't really care all that much, if I'm being honest. My dad scolded me a lot. After he caught me struggling with practice, he'd have me return the Torah to his office. Until then, I'd been doing a good job at suppressing my 'habits' – that's what my dad calls my compulsions – but there was this painting in his office that always itched at me. It was this awful, warped face and it hurt to even _look_ at, but I just couldn't go past it without straightening it. I just _couldn't._ And then my dad... he just didn't understand what was so wrong with it. He tried to get me to stop."

"But didn't work."

"No. That's when I started picking at my skin."  Stan rubbed at the bandages on his wrists. "I'm very aware of the consequences of my disorder."

"Do you want to talk about that?" Dr. Koontz gestured at the bandages with his pen.

"I want to keep working on what we were talking about. The phone call. I want to make the connection. I can do it." He planted his hands firm on either side of the arm chair.

"Alright, we can do that. When the coach yelled at you for taking extra time to fix your stretches, did that make you ease up on your behavior?"

"No. The opposite, really. I only had to start over on my stretches to make sure I got them really right."

"That's not uncommon in children exhibiting obsessive compulsions. Often times scolding only makes them worse."

"Yes. That's what happened with me, I think. Did you hear what Richie said last night?"

"Are we changing the subject?"

"No. This is related."

"Then yes, the nurses told me."

"Well Richie and I have a strange relationship. We're friends. I like him a lot. I've known him a while. We were hospitalized at the same time once before when we were kids. But he annoys me. I mean you've seen him, he can drive you nuts. Everything he does is like this big antithesis of who I am and it really pisses my disorder off. I like him despite that. Anyway, we don't agree on very many things, but what he said yesterday resonated with me."

"Oh?"

"Well most of it was his usual manic babble, but he was talking about how people without mental illnesses can never truly understand those who do."

"And you agree with this?"

"Yes, I think so. I think that's the link. My little league coach didn't understand me and my dad doesn't either."

"And that's the trigger." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. It's a cycle, I guess. I've always had the underlying intrusive thoughts. It's part of who I am. I hate it, but I can deal with it. The compulsions only become bad when I'm… I don't know."

"You're okay, Stan."

"Well I think it's whenever I try to explain my thoughts and I'm reprimanded for them. That's what makes the compulsions scream so loud I can't hear myself anymore"

"I agree."

Stan smiled and let out a breath.

"How do you feel?" Koontz asked.

"Good. I feel very good."

"This has been an extraordinarily productive session."

"Where do we go from here?"

"Well, we still have to talk about your suicide attempt."

Stan wasn't sure how he felt about Koontz's bluntness.

"I know."

"But I have great hope for you, Stan. I think we'll be able to transition into talks about your discharge very soon. If you think you're able to, I want you to start writing down your aspirations."

"For so long I didn't think I had a future… these thoughts… they get so bad sometimes." Stan's voice cracked without his permission.

"I know, Stan. I can't promise to cure you of them. You know as well as me that that isn't how it works."

"I do. I've been in crisis a lot before."

"That's what we can help. You're probably going to deal with your OCD your whole life, but it can be controlled. Do you mind if I pull out the care plan we wrote up in our first session?"

"I'd like to see it."

Dr. Koontz reached into his file and handed Stan his plan. He circled a section.

"Now will you read your treatment goal for me?"

"Yes, I said, 'I want to be okay with being alive.' " Stan wasn't prepared for how much it hurt to read his own writing.

"The world will never be able to accommodate the full symmetry your mind wants to see, but that does not mean you don't fit in it."

"I'm starting to see that."

"And how does that make you feel?"

"Is it possible to hopeful and despondent at the same time?"

"Yes. I have found that the two are not mutually exclusive, as strange as it sounds."

"Well I guess that's how I feel."

"And it's okay to feel like that, but I want to continue working with you until the hope eclipses the despondency."

"I want that too."

"I'm very proud of the progress you made today. I'm going to recommend that we set up an appointment in which we can bring your father in."

"I don't know how I feel about that. My dad is wary about psychiatry. If it were up to him, I would spend more time in temple and less time in therapy."

"Well I won't make you have a family therapy session, but it is my opinion that having him in here with you would be a good medium to explain how you feel and how he sometimes triggers your compulsions."

"But he'll never understand."

"Is that the despondency talking?"

"Yes."

"Does the hope have a response?"

"Yes. At least I think so. My father may not ever truly understand what it's like in my mind…"

"But?"

"I don't know. I thought I did, but I don't. I guess that maybe he'll be able to sympathize. He'll never be able to empathize. That's the crux of it, isn't it? I need to learn to be satisfied with sympathy."

* * *

Bill was still gone after lunch. The emptying A Ward rang with anxious energy. Eddie, Richie, and Stan were watching Comedy Central. Stan had wanted to watch something else – anything else – but Richie was having a bad day, so it was unspoken rules that he got the remote. Eddie got up to wash his hands in the common room sink for the third time in in two episodes of South Park. Stan couldn't stand the way time seemed to bends and flux in the ward, so if he had to watch awful TV just to keep some unit of measurement, it was better than nothing. Halfway into episode three, Eddie went to wash his hands again. Richie groaned.

"So have they diagnosed you yet?" Richie said.

"What?" Eddie turned around.

"OCD. They give you the news, yet?"

"Oh my God, I'm OCD, aren't I? Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my–"

"Beep-beep, Richie."

"What?"

"He's not OCD."

"What? Look at him! He washes his hands every five seconds!"

"The only person who can tell him he's OCD is Dr. Koontz. Stop taking it upon yourself to diagnose people. Has it ever occured to you that you don't know everything?"

"Ok, ok, ok." Richie thrummed his fingers against the table. "Ugghghghgh, who wants to do a puzzle? Let's do a puzzle, guys. We should really do a puzzle. Hey Stan, remember that kid in the children's ward? You know, the one who started eating the puzzle pieces? That was a trip! Oh man, it was great. And then all the sudden the guards–"

"Beep. You're being manic."

"I know that! Depressed in the morning, despairing at breakfast, dead at group, and manic right now! Whoop-de-fucking-doo. It's one hell of a roller coaster, ain't it? Hold onto your hats folks! Richie's on another wild ride! I'm rapid mood spiralling!"

"No you aren't. The DSM-5 defines a rapid mood cycle as a bipolar person experiencing fast episodes of mania and depression–"

"Which is what I'm doing!"

"–in which each episode must last at least three days. Your mood is tumbling in hours here."

"Oh great, and I'm the one diagnosing people?"

Eddie washed his hands.

"I talked to Dr. Koontz and he said I had health anxiety," he said as he papertowelled his hands dry.

"Keep working with him. He's a good doctor."

"Dr. Deadeyes? He's shit."

"No, you just won't let him help. Don't listen to Richie, Eddie. Your getting out tomorrow, right?"

"Well I'm supposed to. I don't know. I might… if I asked… could I stay here?"

"Yes. If you tell them you think you need to continue treatment, they'll let you stay. But you need to really think about that decision."

"Yeah, you haven't even see anyone go nutso yet."

"I saw Vic."

"Vic isn't bad, Eddie. Him snatching my kippah, which you weren't even here for… that wasn't anything. I hate to support Rich here, but we've been in places like this for a long time. Trust us. When someone is in an episode… like a really bad episode… you don't need to see something like that, Eddie."

"Well I'd like to get out of here… I just… I don't know where I'd _go_. I can't go back to my mom, I just can't. And God, I don't have anywhere else to go! My dad's been dead since I was a little kid, I don't have grandparents, I don't even have aunts or uncles… oh God, oh God… where do I go after this?" Eddie's breath pushed short and hard from his chest. Stan gave a cursory glance to the nurses' station. The nurse on duty to one look at Eddie and went back to her paperwork.

"Eddie, you're okay," Richie put a hand on Eddie's back.

"I'm not! I have nowhere to go… I've never had a job! My mom… she wouldn't let me. Oh God, I don't even have any money of my own… I'm only eighteen. Oh God, I'm in high school!" He started to choke on his breath.

"Eddie," Stan tried. "Eddie, listen to me. The nurses won't help you unless ask them." Derry Home Hospital's nurses were particularly slow to action. Unless they were in the company of guests or social workers, they kept a non interventionist stance. As long as no one was hurting themselves or anyone else, they were going to sit back and let the techs take care of the rest. There were no friendly techs on tonight.

"I can't breathe, oh my God, I can't."

Richie gave Stan a cursory glance before sticking his hand in Eddie's pocket.

"Sorry, bud," Richie pulled out the inhaler and Stan sighed a breath of relief. Eddie grabbed it from Richie and shoved it into his mouth and took a couple of hits. Crisis averted. Eddie took a few minutes to regain his breathing. Richie rubbed his back through it and whispered into his ear. Stan had never seen such a look of on Richie's face.

_(adoration? love?)_

_(Page 93. Swans form monogamous pair bonds that can last for life.)_

When Eddie regained himself, he looked at Richie like he'd hung the stars. Stan couldn't help but wonder if that's what he and Bill looked like when they talked about Resnicoff.

* * *

After dinner Bill was _still_ gone and Eddie went to take a shower. Stan and Richie were watching some stupid documentary together. People flitted in and out of the A Ward, but now, it felt so empty. Beverly hadn't made an appearance all day and every group session had been moved to the A Ward. Stan had watched Mike grow wearier as the day passed with no new news.

Richie rested his head on Stan's shoulder.

_(uneven weight! uneven weight!)_

_(Page 83. Catbirds, not quite as attractive as Mockingbirds, sing almost as well.)_

"Stan," Richie asked in a smaller voice than Stan had ever heard from his friend, "can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

Richie didn't laugh.

"I'm being serious."

"Ok, I'm sorry. What is it?"

"Why did you never call? When we were in the kids' ward together… we exchanged phone numbers and everything but you never called."

"You didn't call me either."

"I know, but I don't think you would've answered if I had."

Richie was right and Stan knew it.

"Yeah."

"Why? I know I'm annoying… I know I get off track… but I thought we were friends. Are we friends?"

"Yes."

"Then why?"

"You know how it is in places like this. I guess I just wanted to keep my worlds separate. I don't want to embrace my disorder… I really don't. I guess me not calling you was part of it."

"I get that. It's like you need someone in here… it can be so isolating so you end up friends with people you'd normally never talk to. Not in a bad way, it's just we're so different. Like on the outside, I don't think we would've become friends."

"Yeah. I like you though, Rich. I'm glad we met each other. Are you going to try to get discharged today?"

"No. I want to, though. Like there's nothing in this world I'd like more than to see the sun rise tomorrow and hear the birds chirp, you know?"

"Yeah, I know." Stan thought about the purple martins in his parent's yard.

"But I know I need to stay here. I know I'm frocked up."

"Frocked up?"

"Yeppers."

Stan groaned.

"Oh, Stan the Man, you love me. Admit it."

"Ok, you dork. So you'll stay?"

"Yes, but you know how quick my mind changes itself."

"I do."

"Well I've got another brilliant plan."

"Do share."

"I'm going to take them to court. Obviously after last night they aren't going to want to release me, so I'll fight them on it."

"You don't have to."

"But I will. I know I will. Can I tell you something?"

"You just did." Richie did laugh this time.

"Ok, but I'm going to be serious again."

"Ok."

"When I told the ER that I was going to shoot myself if they didn't bring me here… I don't how much of that was a lie to get help. I'm so tired of this, Stan." God help him, Richie started to cry. "I woke up this morning feeling so _empty_ . It– it– it's like my chest is actually empty and I can't even remember what it's like to feel whole again… and then throughout today… it was like someone just kept zapping my brain. How does that happen to me? I felt so damn wound-up for two months and now this… Why can't I be normal, Stan? I don't even know what that feels like. I don't want to kill myself, I really, _really,_ don't. I'm just so tired."

"You need to talk to Dr. Koontz. I know you've seen a lot of bad psychiatrists and therapists, but I also know you like to refuse help. Koontz is good. He's helped me more than any other doctor. Or I guess it's that he lets me help myself."

"I want that, Stan. I do." Richie wiped at his tears and put on Mr. Alright. "So here's the plan."

"Can't wait to hear it."

"Well it starts out with court, right?"

"Apparently."

"So I'm going to convince one of the nurses to give me an Ativan tonight. I'll hide it under my tongue and save it for tomorrow morning before court. Then, I'll pop it fifteen minutes before. As it kicks in, the judge will see me. I'll be so frocked out of my mind, even if I beg to leave, there's no way he'll let me."

"Beep-fucking-beep!"

"I knew you wouldn't approve."

"No intelligent person would! They're not going to give you an Ativan anyway."

"Maybe. But you have to admit it's a very _me_ plan."

"Yeah, it is. That means it'll probably fail."

"Boo."

"Why don't you just tell the truth to the judge? Sober. You've got to try."

"I do try."

"I know." Stan frowned.

* * *

 

No one from the B Ward had come to snack, not even Mike. Bill was still gone too. As soon as the three remaining A Warders returned to their ward, Eddie and Richie took their meds and headed for bed. Stan hadn't been able to tell whether Richie's gotten his Ativan, but he held out hope.

Stan liked to go to bed at the same time every night, it was the only correct way, but he would wait for Bill tonight.

_(Page 95. There are fifty-six species of Warblers in the United States and they include some of our most beautiful birds.)_

Bill finally came back three-quarters of the way into Saturday Night Live with a thick file in hand. Stan turned the TV off without hesitation.

"Yuh-you're still up," Bill smiled. Damn that smile. Always so cool. Always so beautiful.

_(it's crooked. his right lip is slightly more upturned than the left.)_

And suddenly Stan thought about his bird book with it's yellowed pages and water-damaged back cover. As a child, Stan and his book had been inseparable. With it in hand and his binoculars swinging around his neck, his mind had been freed from the bonds of crushing thoughts of impurity. As Stan looked at Bill's _(confident, gleaming, enchanting)_ smile, a new thought bubbled in his mind.

_Maybe there are two imperfect things I can love._

And then, with two techs by her side, Beverly Marsh walked into A Ward with her pillow in her arms and a bright red 'flight risk' tag on her wristband next to her tracker. She smelled like cigarette smoke.

[](https://imgur.com/59noQ0v)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: discussion of OCD with a heavy look at intrusive thoughts, references to compulsive self harm, minor reference to suicide attempt
> 
> \---
> 
> Special thanks to all my kudos-givers, commenters, and bookmakers <3 <3 <3


	6. Act Two, Scene Two: Lolita Ya Ya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beverly Marsh has something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of potential triggers on this chapter! If you're concerned about anything, please check the endnotes!

# Act Two, Scene Two: Lolita Ya Ya

_"When the infinite servitude of woman shall have ended, when she will be able to live by and for herself; then, man – hitherto abominable – having given her her freedom, she too will be a poet. Woman will discover the unknown. Will her world be different from ours? She will discover strange, unfathomable things, repulsive, delicious. We shall them, we shall understand them."_

_–Arthur Rimbaud_

 

_"You know, it really doesn't matter what they write about you, as long as you've got a young and beautiful piece of ass. But she's got to be young and beautiful."_

_–President Donald J. Trump_

  


_Beverly was asleep when he came into her room. He sat on the corner of her bed. He lifted her blanket up, and stuck his hand up her nightgown._

_And so she woke. And so she screamed. And so the techs took him away._

_"Oh my God. We're going to get fired. We're so going to get fired." A voice._

_"It's Dion's fault! He was supposed to be watching the lights!" Another voice_

_"Dion's not working today. You were the one who agreed to cover for him!"_

_"I'm not getting fired over this. And you're the one who fell asleep on the job. If this gets out to the morning nurses, to the social workers, they'll have both our heads. You get that? We won't just be fired, we'll lose our licenses, and we'll probably get sued too."_

_"Christ… what do we do?"_

_"Give her 2 mg of Ativan and 200 mg of Trazodone."_

_"Are you serious? That'll knock her out good. Besides, when the morning nurses see what we gave her, they'll know something's up."_

_"We're not going to put it in her notes, dumbass!"_

_"So you're saying we drug her into complacency?"_

_"No! I'm saying that the best course of action, for all involved parties, is to give her the pills. She's very upset–"_

_"He was going to rape her."_

_"Christ, Ken! I'm sure he was just trying to scare her. Besides, I'm pretty sure he's a fag. Give her the medicine. She'll think it was all a dream, ok? If you were her, you'd want to forget."_

_"I guess."_

_"Just fucking do it. I'll give Patrick some Ativan too and we'll reassign him to Henry's room. If he has a roommate, hopefully he won't do shit like this again."_

_"Henry already has a roommate, what about him?"_

_"Mike's being discharged later today. Now you get the meds and put her to sleep. They'll both be knocked out by the time our shift is over. The morning crew won't know anything."_

_And so they gave her a pill. And another. And another. And another. And another. And then she was gone._

Bev didn't eat her lunch – didn't even take it out of her backpack. Everyone knew she was dirt poor and sometimes she didn't have a lunch to pack at all. She had packed a lunch this morning, though. She'd woken up, made a cheese sandwich and shoved it in a ziploc bag that had already been used twice this week. When it came time to eat, Bev let her sandwich rot in her cubby.

At recess, she didn't play. That's when Mrs. Douglas' ears perked up a bit. Beverly sat on a bench next to the swingsets where the heavy boy always read. She pitied her, in an almost absent sort of way before redirecting her attention as one of kids bit the dirt in a game of kickball.

Mrs. Douglas called Elfrida Marsh when Beverly threw up.

Alvin was at work and would be for another five hours when Elfrida and Beverly got home.

"Jesus, Bevvie," Elfrida said as she held her daughters hair. Bev retched into the toilet some more. Her vomit was light yellow liquid and nothing else. "Get it all out, sweetie."

Beverly's nose was running and her eyes teared from exertion. Several strings of spittle stretched from her bottom lip to the porcelain bowl. Her body convulsed as the muscles of her stomach tensed again, but not even liquid came out this time. She coughed wildly around the sour taste and Elfrida pulled her head up.

"Are you done?"

Bev nodded, although she wasn't so sure.

"My God, Beverly. What did you _eat?"_

"Nothing Momma, I swear."

"Is there something going 'round at school? I don't think you've been this sick since you were a baby."

"There must be, I guess." Beverly looked down at herself. She'd thrown up all over her dress. In class, she'd been too busy trying to focus on not throwing up to recognize when it was time to run to the bathroom. Greta had shrieked. Beverly had felt too ill to care much about her, but now, as she wiped her chin, she knew how much hell she'd raised when she went back. She retched again and the last bit of stomach acid landed on her mother's socks.

"Jesus! Honey, the toilet! Throw up in the _toilet_ if you've got to throw up. God, we've already got to buy you new school books." Beverly had thrown up on her math textbook too. "We better pray that my socks and your dress wash out good."

"I'm done now," Beverly said, her voice hoarse. "Honest, Momma. I thought I was before, but I swear I am now."

"Ok, but for the love of God, if you feel you've gotta again, go for the toilet. I don't know what it is with you girl, but ever since you were small, you've never made it to the toilet in time when you were sick."

"I'm sorry, Momma."

"It's ok. Not your fault, I suppose."

Elfrida took off her shoes and socks and held them in her hands. She helped Beverly to her feet.

"Ok, Beverly. Can you get your dress off, or do you need help?"

"My dress?"

"The quicker we set it to soak, the better chance we have for it to come out clean. Your daddy works very hard to afford to buy you dresses."

"Yes, Momma, I know." Beverly didn't move. "Uh, Mom? Could you maybe turn your back?"

Elfrida frowned. Beverly had hit her growth spurt early. She already wore cup bras when most of her peers hadn't yet needed to wear anything at all. A few months ago, Elfrida had bought a light pink brassiere with underwire in the smallest size from the Family Dollar and sat Beverly down.

_(You're going to have to start wearing these, dear. Every day. It isn't appropriate if you don't.)_

Along with this spurt, Beverly had developed an embarrassment around her body. Elfrida turned around.

Beverly unbuttoned her dress as quick as she could and peeled the stinking, wet fabric from her skin. She handed the dress to her mom.

"Can I turn around now? We're going to have to get you in the bath."

"I can bathe myself, Mom."

"I know that, dear, but you're real sick. What if you faint? You could drown and you wouldn't even realize it. Don't you think I ought to stay in here with you? I won't make you push back the shower curtain or anything."

"I won't faint, Mom."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, ma'am. I promise. And besides, you should get a start on the soak. I don't want to make Daddy mad."

"You're right." Elfrida stared at the green bathroom tiles. She clutched the soiled clothes a little tighter. "I'll need your brasserie and your underpants."

"No, Momma, it's okay. The vomit didn't soak through, I promise."

"Well, if I'm doing a load of laundry anyways, I ought to get your undergarments done too."

Elfrida hadn't washed her daughter's undergarments in two years.

"I don't need you too, Mom."

"Beverly, don't argue with me. Our water bill is already high enough with you taking baths all the time."

"You need to use bleach for undergarments–"

"I'm already going to have to use the bleach to get your vomit out of my socks!"

Beverly flinched. "I'm sorry, Mom."

Elfrida sighed. "Beverly, I'm tired. I'm not angry. I'll bring you a clean change of clothes just as soon as I put everything in to soak. Now hand me your undergarments and run yourself a bath. You're starting smell up the whole bathroom."

Beverly's fingers shook as she unhooked her bra. She put it in her mother's outstretched hand as Elfrida's gaze stayed fixed on the tiles. The bra was damp with vomit that had definitely soaked through.

"Ok, Beverly. I need your panties too."

"Mom–"

_"Now."_

Beverly stepped out of her underwear. They had a print of Winnie the Pooh on the front and the elastic was stretched out from the years she'd had to wear them through growth spurts. She hated those panties, they were _baby_ panties, but they still used the same towels as they had since Beverly was a real baby. So she was stuck in the too-tight baby panties. She folded them into a tight little square before shoving them into her mother's hand. She prayed that her mother would wait until she left the bathroom to unfold them. No such luck. She blushed furiously as she her heard her mother gasp.

"Sweetie… have you started menstruating?"

"I started six months ago.."

"Do you have enough sanitary pads? Jeez baby, I know you know how tight money is, but if you need pads we can buy you some fucking pads."

Beverly started to cry, but her mother didn't turn around.

Elfrida was quiet for a very long time. Beverly stood naked and quivering, not daring to turn on the taps and break the silence. Elfrida looked at the underwear again. It wasn't menstrual blood and she knew it.

"Sweetheart…"

"Can you go now? Mom? I need to take a bath."

"Is it when you urinate? Does blood come out?"

_"Mom."_

"Honey… is he… did he…"

"Did he what, Momma?"

A lot of things made sense to Elfrida in that moment. She balled up the underwear and left the bathroom. Beverly locked the door behind her.

_when Beverly woke up,_

_she could have sworn_

_she had sand in her eyes._

_she didn't get out of bed._

_She felt a tingly sensation at the bottom of the bed where her feet used to be. She could let her feet float off. She could._

_"Beverly. I'm not making you get up until breakfast, but just know I came in here when I was supposed to." Beverly hummed. "Is that an acknowledgement? Can you hear me?"_

_Beverly thought about turning her head into her pillow and pulling the blanket up. No, Bev. You don't have to. You'll wake your feet back up and you've only just turned them off._

_"Alright, Beverly. I'll come back when it's time for breakfast."_

_Hm._

_"Beverly? Beverly? You've got to get up." hm. It'd already been two hours. Hm. Beverly, who?_

_She stayed silent. Unmoving. Floating away. She had a vague feeling of having to pee. She tucked it away with the stiffness of her joints and her dry throat._

"See?" Alvin handed her a sheet of paper and smiled. On it, he'd drawn a cartoon cow. It was good. Good enough to come to life and run off the page. Beverly thought her daddy could draw for Disney if he really wanted to. To her, his cartoon cow saying MOO in a little balloon was better than the Rugrats or Spongebob or anything you could see on Animaniacs. She laughed. He laughed too. It was good. He took out a fresh sheet of paper and pulled her onto his lap. "Now you, Bevvie." He handed her the pencil.

And so her little hand wrapped around it, although it was far too big for a child to hold. The pencil bobbed in that funny way they always do when children just start to try them out. In Kindergarten, they gave Beverly and all the other little children pencils that were just a bit smaller and easier to handle. Her dad's pencil was long and freshly sharpened, and so it wobbled a bit like a metronome as she drew her own cow. It didn't come out right at all, and Beverly felt like crying.

"It's okay, Bevvie. It's good!" It _was_ good.

She tried again and he guided her hand. She smiled as a cartoon cat formed beneath her tiny, little, child hands. It was _good._ So then why did it hurt?

_and away_

_and away_

_and_

_away_

_No more arms now. She didn't need them. And so they're gone._

_"Beverly?" Was it a kind voice?_

_"Beverly… if you don't get up, I'm going to have to get someone. Please get up." Was there such thing as a kind voice?_

_Beverly's eyes were open, but she wasn't sure if she saw anymore. A face. A technician. Maybe. Maybe not._

_"Come on… I know court didn't go well–"_

_She was gone. Wasn't she?_

"Don't cry, Bevvie." Alvin sat Beverly down. The curtain was drawn. They'd taken Elfrida to morgue already. "Your mother put up a good fight, she really did. She would've stuck around for you if she could."

Ovarian cancer. Stage four and spread to kidneys and pancreas before diagnosis. Dust now.

"Besides," Alvin cooed, "you've still got me. We've got to take care of each other now, okay?"

A sob ripped through Beverly's chest.

"Now listen here, girl." Alvin yanked her up by her arm. He pulled her from her mother's empty hospital room, through the cancer ward, and to the elevators of Derry Home Hospital. "You ever hear about Juniper? Huh?" Beverly wept into her sleeves. Alvin pinched her jaw in his hand and forced her gaze to meet his. A nurse looked at them. An alarm went off somewhere and she looked away. "Answer me, Bevvie." He pinched hard enough for Beverly's teeth to hurt.

"No, Daddy. I've never heard of Juniper," she spoke through squished lips.

Alvin punched the button for the elevator.

"Juniper is where they send the crazy people, Beverly. Do you know what hysteria is?"

Beverly shook her head.

"Hysteria is when a woman loses track of her emotions. Now I'm not scolding you for crying about your mother, but you've got to get it together. You got no money, you got no momma, you got no friends. Now you have a very bleak existence, I hope you understand that. And that's how women go crazy. When your life is all a big pile of shit and you ain't got _nothing_ all that's left to do is crumble. Juniper is where they send the crumbled remains of hysterical lunatics, ok? They are the scum of society and they ain't ever had a chance. You live your life of despair and you'll never have a chance neither. Do you understand that?"

Beverly didn't say anything. Her eyes were glazed with tears. She looked at the wall and watched it blur.

"Now don't you float away on me!" He tugged her arm again. "You've always floated away. I swear to God, Bevvie, I worry so much. You've got to keep your head on."

Beverly snapped back. "But… I don't have anything. Daddy you said it yourself."

Alvin's laugh was a deep throaty thing. "I was only yanking your chain, Bevvie! You don't got _nothing_. You got me."

The elevator dinged. Alvin shoved Beverly in and they crammed around the nurses who were too tired to notice. Alvin pointed to button number 7.

"That," he whispered into her ear, "is Juniper. And if you're bad, Bevvie, I swear to God, if you tell anyone, they'll take you away from me. They'll take you away and they'll throw you into Juniper."

"Do you know why?" he asked when they were in the car. Beverly looked at her dress. It was the same dress– "Beverly? Are you even listening?"

She looked at him with her big eyes. Young. Glistening. Dirt.

"Yes, Daddy."

"You weren't. What the Sam Hill is _wrong_ with you? You get me so worried." He shook his head. Disappointment knit his eyebrows into one. "I asked if you know why Juniper is on the seventh floor."

"No, Daddy. I don't know."

"It's the seventh floor because that's the very top floor. In Venice, way back in olden times, there was a prison in the big palace. It was called the Leads. Only they were very smart in olden times, back before Italy became all dagos and wops, of course. They put the Leads on the very top floor, just like Juniper. That way, if any of the prisoners tried to escape, they'd have to make their way down all the other floors past all the people that could catch them."

"I didn't know you knew anything about Venice, Daddy."

"I know lots of things. I'll give you my book about Venice when we get home."

"Ok, Daddy. Thank you."

_"Go in there and wake her up." A voice?_

_"Sir, it's not that she's asleep. She's gone completely unresponsive. I haven't been able to get a response out of her all morning." Another voice?_

_"Then grab her by the fucking arm if you have to. The other patients are starting to ask questions and if you don't get her going, the whole rest of the ward is going to get volatile."_

_And then someone was touching her through the fizz. And then there was screaming. And oh! It was coming from her! How curious, indeed. Screaming and clawing. Her body did it all by itself. But it didn't matter because she was gone. She was all soul._

"I said no!"

_"Pull up her goddamned file."_

_"Here you go."_

_"Ok, what do we have here?" One voice hummed. "Dr. Reuter takes the worst fucking notes. I can barely read his goddamned handwriting."_

_"It says 'history of abuse.' That's it."_

_A sigh. "We need to get someone to audit his sessions. We pay that bastard too much to get notes this scant. At least we have something to go off of. Get a female tech."_

_"We don't have any on this floor."_

_"Well, send in a nurse."_

_"All the nurses are on standby for the rest of the patients. We're doing everything we can to isolate the situation. I can see if we can get a social worker to talk to her. I think Deborah's running group right now, but–"_

_"We can't use a social worker. You saw her, she tried to claw your eyes out. If she did that with a social worker, that's a lawsuit waiting to happen. I need someone qualified to handle patients. Bring in a female tech from another floor."_

_"They don't have psychiatric training–"_

_"Just do it. Goddamn, I've been at this job too long."_

_The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova,_ was a very big book. Before her daddy gave it to her, Beverly didn't know he owned any very big books. It was big indeed, but there was only one section that really mattered to Beverly – CHAPTER XXX: In Which I Nearly Lose My Life on the Roof to Get out of the Ducal Prison.

It went like this:

"And so I looked up that prison ceiling. I grasped my pike firmly and I pushed it obliquely between the joining of the plates of lead roofing, and then holding the side of the plate which I had lifted, I succeeded in drawing myself up to the summit of the roof.

"With my pike in my hand, I sat astride the roof and moved along without any difficulty. For nearly an hour I went to this side and that, keeping a sharp look-out, but in vain; for I could see nothing to use to get down from the roof. And oh! That is the curse of The Leads! No way to escape. But alas! There is always away, but you have to have _something_. I saw nowhere for me to go from that roof. The situation called for hardihood, but not the smallest piece of rashness.

"It was necessary, however, either to escape, or to reenter the prison, perhaps never again to leave it, or to throw myself into the canal. In such a dilemma it was necessary to leave a good deal to chance, and to make a start of some kind.

"Philosophic reader, if you will place yourself for a moment in my position, if you will share the sufferings which for fifteen months had been my lot, if you think of my danger on the top of a roof, where the slightest step in a wrong direction would have cost me my life, you must remember, I had to escape. I could. I would. I did. I spent all that long and lusty night through the dark of the yellow, Venetian moon, flying. I flew from rooftop to rooftop. The Leads were built to be inescapable, but I tore through that roof and I flew away."  
Beverly underlined Chapter XXX in a short, stubby pencil.

_"Beverly? My name is Madison, but my friends call me Maddy." A kind voice. Definitely a kind voice. "I work on another floor here at Derry Home Hospital. Can you talk to me?"_

_Girls can't talk if they don't exist._

Beverly Marsh stood in front of the bathroom mirror and lopped her goddamned hair off. She looked in the mirror.

_You got no money_

_You got no momma_

_You got no friends_

_This is how people do it_

_Daddy was right_

_When the world around you is an ocean of despair_

_You need a rock to grab onto_

_Or else you'll float away_

_And you can't float away_

_So don't let yourself slip._

_You need to find your rock_

_Because God knows your Daddy is just another wave_

_So find a rock of your own_

_You need to find it now, Miss Marsh_

_Or else you'll float away._

_"That's okay, Beverly. I won't make you talk. Do you mind if I talk?" The invisible girl did not move. Maddy moved to Beverly's night stand._

_"These drawings are beautiful," she said. A kind voice. Yes. "Are these designs? Do you like to sew?"_

_You can't float away._

_"I don't wear designer clothes, so I don't know to much about that, but I know talent when I see it. You could make money off of these."_

_No money._

_No momma._

_And you never had a daddy to begin with._

_Mike_

_Bill_

_Stanley_

_Eddie_

_Shithead Richie_

_Ben._

_You have friends._

_You're smart,_

_You can draw._

_You can sew._

_You can make money off of that._

_You can._

_But you have to get good_

_And you have to stay sane_

_So you can't float away._

"You're not just saying that, are you?" Beverly sat up.

Maddy's smiled as she came back to life.

"No, I wouldn't lie. These are good."

"My head hurts." It did. Even moving her eyes around sent aching pain through her skull. She felt tired, _very_ tired, and yet she knew she'd been awake for hours now. "I… I feel sick." She gripped her stomach.

"Do you need to throw up?"

Beverly nodded quickly, her brain and her head seemed to move independently. It felt like floating. Maddy helped her up and to the bathroom.

"Get it all out," Maddy rubbed Beverly's back as she vomited. "You're okay. I promise. No one here will hurt you."

Beverly stopped retching. _I think someone did._ The thought came and went.

"The rest of the patient's are just coming back from dinner. Do you think you can join them?"

Beverly shook her head.

"That's okay. We'll get you some juice. Would you like to go to the common room? The techs on this floor say that your friends miss you."

"Is Mike out there?"

"I don't know the other patient's names." Maddy brushed a lock of hair away from Beverly's brow. "Here, let's brush your teeth and then we can see who's out there."

Maddy got called back to the surgery center before she could get Beverly her juice. And then Beverly was alone in the common room. The nurses were in their little station, but they were never much of a comfort anyway.

"Hi, Bird." Patrick seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Oh, uh, hi Patrick." Beverly tried to smile to, but for some reason the muscles in the corner of her mouth would not move. She felt a stiff sort of discomfort. Still, Patrick didn't really speak much to anyone, so if he felt he could open up to her, who was she to withhold that from him?

"I've seen the way Bill looks at you."

Beverly blushed. Had Bill been looking at her? He was strong. And kind. And his hair was almost the exact same color as hers. She hadn't thought of him in a romantic context before… but maybe. Maybe. And now Ben was gone. They were supposed to meet up on the outside, but now it felt like she'd never get out.

"Oh. Uh, I don't know what you mean."

"He wants to fuck you. He told me he did." That was a lie. It had to be. Bill was kind. And even if he did want that, Patrick was the last person he'd tell. Right?

"I–"

"I noticed. We all noticed. That's when Bill told me what he wanted to do to you. I didn't take him for the violent type, but I guess you can never tell." He wouldn't say… would he? How well did Beverly know Bill? If he wanted to do… violent things… Beverly had never been good at avoiding violent men. It was almost as if there was something ingrained within her that made her trust them.

"I don't mean to upset you, Beverly. I just thought you should know." He's lying. He's nuts. He's the creepiest one here. Right? He wouldn't tell the truth. It's got to be an delusion.

"Well, anyway..." she shifted nervously on the heels of her feet.

"Why'd they have to get a female tech? I don't mean to pry, it's just that we've all been very worried." There was something awful in the way he spoke. Something that almost made her feel compelled to answer in truth.

"I don't know. I'm really sorry Patrick–"

"Bev!" And there was Mike. A rush of relief fell over Beverly. She saw Patrick slink away in the corner of her eye. Mike hugged her and her body stiffened all on its own. "Are you okay?" he asked, eyes full with worry.

"I…" _I can't remember._ "I'm fine." She smiled and hugged him back.

"Man, me and the rest of the losers were so worried today. Eddie thought you were having 'female troubles.' " Mike laughed nervously.

"Oh my God!" Beverly giggled and that seemed to make Mike's laugh ease up too. "He's so adorable."

"So what _was_ wrong? If you don't mind me asking…"

"Oh, not at all. I think I just had a bug. I was too tired to get up and then I had to throw up. But I'm okay now."

Mike didn't look convinced.

"Really," Bev inisted with a smile, "I'm okay."

"Ok, Miss Marsh. T.V. time then?"

"Yes, but only if I get to pick. The new episode of Project Runway's coming on and just because I'm stuck in here does _not_ mean I'm missing it."

And then

And then

And then a tech came in.

A tech

Came

In

Itchy and clammy and cooped out.

It would be good to go out.

It would be good to see the sun.

It would be good to hear the birds.

It would be good

It was good

Was it good?

The sun!

Was it?

The birds!

Was it–

"Beverly? You have a visitor."

Good to get out.

Did you know that Beverly did not see the sun on the way to court. It was into the back of the medical van and into the court annex. Through the garage. No sun. No bird. No _out._ There is no out. There is nothing.

"Ok."

The tech led her by the arm.

It going to be him

He's come to see me

He's here

And they'll let him

They've always

Let him.

"Beverly?" He was not Him.

Beverly Marsh threw herself into Ben Hanscom's arms.

"Bev?" He was stiff. And then he wasn't. His arms softened around her and he held her close. Close and kind. They sat down in the little chairs in the little room. He held her hands. "I'm sorry to just show up… I tried calling… I called your cell phone, Bev. I called you a hundred times. At first I thought that maybe you needed space, or maybe that it was little farce – you and I swearing we'd meet on the outside."

"It wasn't a farce. Ben, it wasn't. I want to see you. I like you. Court–" breath. out. in. nothing? something? a rock? no. but something "Court didn't go well."

"I'm sorry." He squeezed her hands a little tighter. A little kinder. "I… I hope this isn't weird for you, me just showing up, but when you didn't answer the phone, I figured something had gone wrong."

"You came back? To see me? To make sure I was safe?"

"Yes." She looked into her eyes and suddenly she understood something, although she couldn't say what it was. "Beverly… what happened?"

You can't float away.

"Well," a breath. a real one. There was a tech in the corner of the room. Beverly supposed there was always a tech on guard during visitation, but Beverly had never had visitors before. Before? It'd only been a bit over 72 hours, and yet, it felt like she'd been in Juniper her whole life. She knew the tech, she liked him alright. His name was Ken. He didn't meet her gaze. She looked back to Ben. He didn't meet eyes with people very often, a few days ago, he'd told her he sometimes forgot to make eye contact. But he met her eyes and he saw into her soul. So she breathed again. "I went to court. I sat down and so did the judge. The psychiatrist from my ward wasn't there. He sent in a note, it didn't say much, but the judge read it carefully. And then my dad came in. He was dressed in a suit. I made him that suit. And he sat down too. And my aunt wasn't there. And they let my dad talk. I floated away. Why do I do that? As soon as I saw him, I couldn't speak, I could hardly move. I think that's what did it in. The judge looked at me and asked me some questions, but I couldn't respond. And my dad said 'See, she's hysterical,' and I guess the judge agreed."

"How long are they making you stay?"

"The judge ordered me to stay for another ten days… I want to get a lawyer, but I don't have any money."

"I'm so sorry, Bev."

"When do you leave?"

"My flight back to California is in a few days. I'll visit everyday I'm still here."

"I wish they'd let me out."

"Me too."

"We could have had time together. We could have driven down to Portland or all the way out of Maine."

"I know. I'm so sorry. Do you think you could get a public defender?"

"I don't need one. I'm going to get out, but it's going to be ten days. And when I get out, the first thing I'm going to do is go to the restaurant my mom used to work at and I'm going to order a big apple pie and I'm going to eat the whole thing by myself. And then I'm going to take the $500 from my savings account and I'm going to buy a bus ticket and I'm going to get so far away from here. It'll be hard, but I'll get a job in clothing shop. I'll work really hard and every night I'll come home and I'll sew my own clothes. And God! I don't know how I'm going to make it happen, but I'm going to sell my designs."

"They're so good, Bev." Ben smiled. She'd shown them to him on the first night they were in the B Ward and he'd shown her some designs for buildings. His were so good too. Truly good. The corner of her lips snapped upwards on their own accord.

"I know," she giggled in earnest. Her drawings _were_ good because every time the waves hit her, every time she thought the despair would drown her, that her body would float away in the rolling water – she made herself get better. Her momma had taught her to sew so she could serve him. He had taught her to draw to keep her complacent. And those twin talents that had gone from their hands to hers and now they were her weapon. He never knew that he gave her the tools to escape. Sometimes, when you don't have a rock, you have to take everything you have and forge one for yourself. And that's how you stay sane. "I'm going to make a career out of it, just you wait."

"I will, Bev. I will. Maybe one day, in a whole new future, you'll be designing your clothes in a big city in a big building that I've designed."

"That's going to happen, Ben. I'm sure of it. One day, we'll both be huge. I've never felt so understood by anyone as much as you understand me."

"I feel the same way." Ben smiled and Beverly knew that each word he spoke to her contained the weight of a thousand thoughts. Maybe that's what makes a voice kind.

"But first I'm going to have to pay my ten days. I'm not going to fight it," her eyes shot to Ken in the corner, it seemed almost painful for him to be in the same room as her. And was that guilt on his face? Or was it just more dirt? Whatever it was, it made him put in headphones and stare at his phone. It was a good thing that no one else had showed up for visitation yet. "I have a plan," she whispered all the same.

"A plan?" Ben's lips twitched in curiosity, ready to hear whatever delicious secret she could divulge to him.

"Do you have any cigarettes on you?" Beverly and Ben were both smokers. They had figured that out on the first night when they'd spotted each other's nicotine patches. On the seventh floor, there were nicotine patches a plenty. Smoke breaks were too dangerous because that meant a patient would have to see the sun and hear the birds, Beverly supposed. Her voice dropped to more than just a whisper. "A lighter too?"

Ben nodded.

"Ok," she continued. "Keep your eyes on me. The tech isn't paying attention. I need you to reach into your pockets and take out a cigarette and the lighter. Pass them to me under the table."

"You're not going to do anything…" Ben didn't seem sure how to finish that question.

She laughed. "I promise I won't burn anything down. I promise I won't hurt myself either, it might look like it, but I promise I won't. I need this, Ben. I need it because I'm going to pay my ten days, but first I need _something._ In this world, you always have to have _something."_

Ben slid the cigarette and a lighter under the table.

"Ok. Now listen carefully."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to go outside. I can do it. The door to the elevators is right next to this door. I'm going to go quick and I'm going to get to the elevator room. They don't keep the door locked. I know they don't. They should, but they don't."

"Outside? Bev, if you do manage to get there, you still have to get down six more floors. And the minute they realize you've gotten to the elevators, they'll track your bracelet. That elevator takes a long time, Bev. It stopped at nearly every floor when I came up here. You won't get past the elevators."

"I know." Beverly's smile only grew. "I only need to be outside for a second. I only need to feel the sun on my skin. I don't need to get passed the elevators. That's the beauty of it." _Alvin Marsh never knew that he gave her the tools to escape._ But she had them now. "Ok, Ben. You stay right where you are, I'm going to make it look casual. It might take him a second to notice. Hell, it might take him minutes. You stay where you are, though. And when he does notice, you say you had no idea I was going to run." With one more cursory glance to Ken, who still could not make himself look up, Beverly tucked the cigarette and lighter into her bra.

_(You're going to have to start wearing these, dear. Every day. It isn't appropriate if you don't.)_

"I like you a lot, Ben," she whispered in her lowest voice yet. "I'm going to go now. I'm going to go and see the outside, because before I can make all the things I want to make happen, I have to have something to get me through. In this world, you take what you can get. I can make it through the next ten days, but I need to see the sun to remind me what's waiting on the other side."

And she stood. And she walked out into the hall. And she saw Ben's face through the small window as the door closed. And she opened the door to the elevator room. And she closed the door behind her. And she opened the window next to the elevator room. It wasn't locked, it wasn't even sealed. And she drew herself onto the roof.

The sun was setting, but it still shone on her shoulders all the same. It felt like the first time the sun had ever shone on Beverly Marsh. Birds sang somewhere. She saw beautiful, bright swaths of fabric dancing in the sky. She could create a dress that captured that feeling. She could. Outside was beautiful and the roof was vast. She sat down and lit up her cigarette. She smoked the whole thing before a barrage of techs rushed through the roof access hatch.

She let them take her back down without a fight. And when they put a red tag on her bracelet, they told her that they'd determined that the only person she was a risk to was herself. And so she let them take her to the A Ward with taste of a cigarette still on her breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: attempted rape, allusions to the rape of a child, child abuse, suicidal ideation (sort of), gas lighting, dissociative episode, severe professional negligence


	7. Act Two, Scene Three: Shitting on Diamonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie feels so goddamned broken. But he isn't alone.

 

#  Act Two, Scene Three: Shitting on Diamonds

_ Morning. _

Richie woke up at five a.m. Again. His eyes ached with the lingering Ativan. He wouldn't be up much longer. He got out of bed, stumbled a bit, and went to the bathroom to take a piss. He caught his reflection, although he wished he hadn't.

_ Stupid. So stupid. So, so, so, fucking stupid. _

Everything beautiful, everything boisterous, every bit of energy and love and joy and arousal and inspiration and wit. Gone. 

_ You're okay. You are.  _ He thought briefly about taking a shower and brushing his teeth. Maybe turning on one of the lights and reading a comic book. Something. He didn't want to go back to sleep.  _ Stupid. _

"Richie, are you in the bathroom?" The tech pushed the door open. Richie glared at him from the sink.

"You know, I could have been taking a shit. You ever hear about something called privacy?"  _ You don't get privacy. You don't deserve privacy. You can't be trusted with it. _

"Charming. Next time, just respond when I ask if you're in there and we won't have a problem, ok?"

Richie turned away from the tech and washed his hands. The tech left him alone. Richie splashed some water on his face. His mouth was filled with the taste of heavy sleep and his brain seemed to pound to his heart beat. He didn't brush his teeth.

When he returned to their bedroom, Richie looked at Eddie in the dim light spilling from the hall. He looked pretty.  _ Pretty? _ Richie crawled back in bed and went back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

"Richie… Richie… wake up." There was a world somewhere on the other side of Richie's eyelids, but he didn't want to see it. "Wake up!" It wasn't a tech's voice. It was Eddie. Richie could open his eyes for Eddie.

Now in the true morning, Richie could see that Eddie really was pretty. Mania had a way of making him believe everyone was attractive enough to shake bones with, but the lens had fallen, and Richie still found him to resoundingly and undeniably beautiful. Richie sniffed and then he realized Eddie was right next to him – really right next to him – not like the morning before where they'd danced around the dividing line in their room. 

"Eds, you're going to set the lights off."

Eddie smiled nervously and pointed to his bedside table where his hospital bracelet, tracker and all, sat next to his few other possessions. 

"You wouldn't wake up," Eddie explained. Richie watched a million uncertainties dance across Eddie's face. "I'm sorry. God, I shouldn't have invaded your privacy like that–"

"It's fine." Richie wanted to smile and reassure Eddie, but he found that he couldn't make himself. He just wanted to go back to sleep. "How'd you get it off anyway?"

"Thin wrists," Eddie chuckled, "I slipped right out of it."

Richie heard footsteps approaching. 

"Slip it back on and get to your side of the room."

The tech that came in for rounds was the same one Richie'd wanted to blow for pills the day before. He couldn't meet his eyes.  _ Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.  _ Richie's shoulders sagged. After the tech left, Eddie went in the bathroom to change. Richie closed his eyes. 

"Richie… are you asleep again?"

Richie opened his eyes.

"No." 

He closed them again.

"Oh… well do you want to get up? I– I know yesterday was hard…"

"Can we not talk about it, Eds? Please?"

Eddie looked crestfallen. Richie felt like he'd just kicked a puppy.  _ A beautiful puppy. Better than you'll ever be. Happy. Pretty. And then there's you. Ugly and hollow. It doesn't even matter what you look like on the outside because in here, you're empty. Only you're worse than empty, you suck everyone else into your emptiness too. You're a black hole.  _

"How 'bout we go see what's up this morning, Swaghetti?" Richie managed a smile this time, but Eddie didn't buy it.

"You don't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"Smile when you're sad. At least not around me." And oh did that make Richie's heart…  _ nothing. You feel nothing. What's wrong with you? He's beautiful and kind and lovely and funny and amazing and he  _ gets  _ you, or at least he tries to. You like him. You know you do. So why don't you feel anything? Eddie's wrong. You're not sad. You have to be able to feel something to be sad.  _ Apparently Richie's body was better at feeling sad than his mind, because he felt himself tear up without even realizing. Richie used a curious finger to swipe away the strange tears.  _ You're starting to cry. Why? _

"Thanks, Eddie." Richie sniffed.  _ Say something nice. He's nice. What's more, he's nice to you and Lord knows how hard that is.  _ Eddie blushed. He was wearing the blue paper scrubs today. His mother had dropped off nearly an entire wardrobe of clothes for Eddie to wear, but he left them in a bundle on his shelves and opted for psych-ward chic. "You look nice today. Blue's a good color on you." Richie meant to try on another smile, but he decided to take up Eddie's offer. 

Richie stood up, considered getting changed and wrapped himself in the hospital's thin blanket instead. He shuffled to the common room with Eddie latched to his side. 

"Guh-good m-m-morning, Eddie." Bill smiled from the couch in front of the TV. He patted the seat next to him for Eddie to sit.  _ Just look. I wish I knew how it felt to be either of them. I wish I knew how it felt to be  _ anything.  _ No. Don't do that. You're being selfish. Again. You know Eddie has his own problems to deal with and you know how hard life has been to Bill. God, at least they have reasons to feel the way they do. You? You were just born wrong. Really, really, wrong.  _

"Where's his royal tightness?" Richie asked. 

"Y-you know Stan like tuh-to t-take his time in the morning."   _ Yeah. Time. You couldn't even make yourself brush your teeth, much less take a shower. Stan likes to make himself presentable and Bill's charming no matter how many times he's worn that shirt and Eddie–  _ "Duh-do you w-want to pick wuh-what we watch?" Bill offered him the remote.  _ Why can't you be more like him? _

Stan finally emerged from his room a few minutes before breakfast. He had definitely showered. His skin was pink and raw. His jaw was tense. He smelled like soap. He was wearing a button down shirt tucked into chinos with pristine socks and laceless loafers too. With one look, Richie could tell that if Stan had a choice, he'd be wearing a belt too. He looked good. In that moment, there wasn't anything Richie wouldn't give to be able to trade places with him. Richie felt his body start to try and cry again. He pulled his blanket tighter around him and let Bill guide him to breakfast.

Eddie sat next to Bill. Stan also sat next to Bill. Everyone wanted to sit next to Bill.  _ It's because he's good. He's kind. He can feel things.  _ Richie focused on his waffles. Bill gave him a smile – was it encouraging? Or just sad?  _ Diminished.  _ And those damn tears were just aching to bubble over now. 

"Ruh-R-Richie, is ok." Maybe it was encouraging. 

"I know, Bill,"  _ you don't. You don't know. You don't know anything.  _ "I'll perk up. I always do."  _ But what if you don't? Think about it. You've only been up for an hour or so and you can't even  _ remember  _ what it was like to feel any other way. Even if you do perk up, it's only a matter of time before you fall into this again. And don't you hurt? Isn't your chest empty? Honestly, how much of this do you think you can take? You're not brave or strong like Bill and Stan… you're not brave enough to even try to off yourself. But wouldn't that be so much better? If you could just… end. No more spiral. No more pit. No more black and dark and tar. No more black hole. Would it be selfish? People always say suicide is selfish, but they're not talking about you. Stan and Bill have people who love them. They have beautiful things to say and lives to improve and stuff to contribute to society. And you… everyone really would be better off without you. You heard mom. You've already caused her so much heartbreak…  _

_ I don't want to die. I want to have never existed.  _

Stan tried to offer Richie some fruit, but Richie couldn't hear him over the mess of his mind. And then Bill and Stan were toasting to something.  _ I see you, Stan. You don't even call me on the outside, but Bill… well you could fall in love with him.  _

At some point the B Warders had come in without Richie even noticing. Beverly wasn't with them. Mike said she wouldn't leave her bedroom this morning. He said her dad had showed up to her court hearing. 

"This world is a piece of motherfucking shit," Richie said.

Stan smiled at him. "There he is. Welcome back, Rich."  _ He pities you. He should. _

"Boo." And back into his blanket Richie went.

"Oh, uh Richie, do you want to tell us a story?" Richie peaked at Eddie.  _ He likes you. How could you let him like you? You're a mess. You're incurable. Mom knows it. Dad knows. Hell, even Dr. Deadeyes knows it.  _ "Or I could tell one?"

"Ok, Swaghetti." A smile pulled its way out of Richie. A small, flickering little warmth in his chest came on. _He is cute._ "Tell me a joke."

"Well… when I got here, you know how they do inventory on all the stuff you have? Well they wrote down that I had six dollars. Isn't that funny? Like wow, I'm so rich, they must keep track of my momentous wealth. Funny, right?" It wasn't all that funny. But the way Eddie said it with a nervous chuckle and the very fact that he was trying to cheer Richie up – it was good. Maybe there was something alive in Richie after all.  _ Say something back. You can do it.  _

He told Eddie about the charred cigarette in his pocket just waiting to be returned to him when he was discharged. _Your seventy-two hours will be over soon. You could get that cigarette back and what a fitting trophy it would be. Mom_ _was right. You shit away every attempt to get help and now you'll have nowhere to go when you get out. They'll take you off the insurance and then it doesn't fucking matter if you want to try to get help again because you're too damn fucked up to hold a job and you won't be able to afford a second of being in here. Did you even consider how much it would cost mom and dad when you went into the ER? Their insurance deductible must be through the roof. You ruin everything. She was right. She was right. She was right._

When breakfast was finally over, Richie lagged behind the rest of the A Warders. As he put his tray up, Patrick stopped him.  _ Great. This is your future, Rich. Just look at him– _

"Don't you hate the way Bill looks at Eddie?"  _ Wait, what?  _

"What are you talking about?" Richie's eyes shot to the doorway where Eddie was laughing at something Bill had said. 

Patrick's eyes were dead and flat.  _ He's crazy. He is. So are you though, isn't that the point? God. Don't look into his fucking eyes.  _ Then Patrick laughed. It was a weird thing, off-key almost. 

Later, when a nurse took Bill away to get his physical, Richie wasn't sure how to feel.

 

* * *

 

Richie made a phone call after Stan made his. He pulled a chair to the phones and curled up into it as he cradled the receiver in the crook between his chin and shoulder. The nurses had made him put his blanket away for morning group and Beverly hadn't shown up, so he hadn't been able to wrangle a hoodie from her. Richie settled for folding in on himself. 

The phone rang.  _ He won't answer. He won't. He won't. _

"Hello? Who is this?"

"Dad! It's Richie."  _ He answered. He answered. He answered! _ The line went quiet. "Dad?"

Richie stared at the poster on the wall, waiting for his dad to say something, anything. Its straightness mocked him. He nudged it askew.  _ Talk to me. Dad. Please say hi. Tell me a joke. Laugh with me. Let me do an impression for you. Please. Please. Please. I'm so empty, dad. Tell me it's okay. Tell me you still love me. Tell me– _

"Why are you calling?"

"Dad…"  _ Apologize. God. Take this moment, you have to. Tell him you're sorry.  _ Richie felt his throat tighten. "How are things outside of the clinker?"

"Why are you calling?" Wentworth repeated.

_ Say it! Say it!  _ "Well guv'nah–"

The line went dead. Richie smacked the poster crooked. 

_ Black hole.  _

 

* * *

 

After morning group Richie felt his brain buzz.  _ Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. And we're back, folks! See! It didn't last forever, dumbass! All that wallowing self pity was for nothing. Black hole? Not you. Supernova? Maybe. You're going to be ok, Rich. You're normal again. Don't you miss being normal? Stop. Go. Stop. Go? Go! Go! Go!  _ He took a few breaths. They were nice. 

Stan let Richie have the remote. Richie flicked through the channels.  _ Dumb. Dumb. Boring. Seen it. Next.  _ Finally, he settled on an episode of South Park. Richie thrummed his fingers along to the theme song and let a wave of energy build up in his body.  _ Thrum! Thrum! Dumb. _

Eddie got up to wash his hands. When he came back, he nuzzled into Richie's side.  _ Cute! Cute! Cute! Oh thank you, God! You have blessed me indeed!  _ He looked down at Eddie and Eddie looked up at him. They shared a smile.  _ He's good. He's so good. He's kind and funny and cute and he actually likes you! He does!  _

_ Here we go. I'm not going to fuck anyone decades older than me ever again. I'm never going to suck an old man off just to get some kicks. Never. I'm not going to stick my dick in any girl who wants me to. I'm going to keep it in my pants. I'm eighteen. I'm practically still a kid.I'm going to act like it! I can have a normal relationship.  _

Eddie rested his head on Richie's shoulder and gave him a flirty grin. _ Oh, Eddie, my beautiful ray of sunshine. I'm going to get my act together and I'm going to get better and then we can exchange numbers and you'll call me! You'll call me and I'll call you and we'll both answer! As soon as we're both out of here, I'm going to ask you and take you on a dumb date. I'll bring you flowers and take you to the movies and I'll by you a slushy and kiss you until the syrup makes both our tongues blue.  _

Eddie got up and washed his hands again. Then they cuddled. Then Eddie went to wash his hands. Then they cuddled. Then Eddie got up. Richie was sure he was going to go crazy if Eddie kept having to get up.  _ Make a joke out of it. You're good with jokes. Dispel the tension.  _

"So have they diagnosed you yet?" Richie chuckled but it didn't come out right. Eddie's eyes bugged and Richie knew he'd made a mistake.

"What?"  _ Play it off. Play it off! _

"OCD. They give you the news yet?"  _ Bad, Richie! Shut up! Sure he's the most OCD person like to ever exist, but that doesn't mean you have to say it!  _

" Oh my God, I'm OCD, aren't I? Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my–"  _ There you go Richie.  _

"Beep-beep, Richie."  _ At least Stan gets how fucked up you are! But does he have to say it allowed? I mean sure, I shouldn't have said it, but isn't he at least impressed that I know things? _

"What?"

"He's not OCD."  _ Bullshit. Prove it. Prove how smart you are. _

"What? Look at him! He washes his hands every five seconds!"

"The only person who can tell him he's OCD is Dr. Koontz. Stop taking it upon yourself to diagnose people. Has it ever occured to you that you don't know everything?" 

_ Thrum. Dumb. Thrum. Dumb.  _ The TV was boring. The common room was stupid. And there was nothing to do. Richie could practically feel himself crawling out of his skin.  _ Gah! This is all bullshit! You need to get the fuck out of this place as soon as you can. God. I need a fucking joint. A bump. Something.  _ And then the TV was too loud and the walls were too white and there was  _ nothing _ to do. 

"Ok, ok, ok." Richie thrummed his fingers against the table.  _ Thrum! Thrum! Do something! God anything! I need a fucking cigarette. I need to jack off. I need to go for a drive. I need to do something!  _ Richie itched at his nicotine patch. "Ugghghghgh, who wants to do a puzzle? Let's do a puzzle, guys. We should really do a puzzle. Hey Stan, remember that kid in the children's ward? You know, the one who started eating the puzzle pieces? That was a trip! Oh man, it was great. And then all the sudden the guards–"

"Beep. You're being manic."  _ God-fucking-dammit! You are! You fucking fuckface! It's all downhill now! You had twenty minutes of normalcy and now you're ready to tear yourself apart. This is the rest of your life, fuckface. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Your mind is fractured and it just keeps flick flick flickering away! And you were ready to be normal? Ha! Chuck-a-fucking-licious!  _ Richie felt frustration creep into his bones. 

"I know that! Depressed in the morning, despairing at breakfast, dead at group, and manic right now! Whoop-de-fucking-doo. It's one hell of a roller coaster, ain't it? Hold onto your hats folks! Richie's on another wild ride! I'm rapid mood spiralling!"

"No you aren't. The DSM-5 defines a rapid mood cycle as a bipolar person experiencing fast episodes of mania and depression–"

"Which is what I'm doing!"

"–in which each episode must last at least three days. Your mood is tumbling in hours here." _ Stan might as well have called me and idiot. That's what he thinks, isn't it? That's why he never called because you're own big, manic, dumbfuck. He doesn't see you. He doesn't  _ get _ you. He doesn't know what it's like to be so filled with awful energy that you want to pull your goddamned skin apart! _

"Oh great, and I'm the one diagnosing people?" Richie spat. 

Eddie washed his hands.  _ Damn it. Come on. Richie. Calm yourself down. Sure your mind is flicking so fast you can't keep up. Slow. It. Down. Be normal. Don't do it for mom. You tried that already. Don't do it for Eddie. It's not fair to him. Do it for yourself. Be a better person.  _

And then Eddie started to freak out about his impending release.  _ This all you. You did this.  _ A smaller voice arose:  _ fix it.  _

"Eddie," Richie's voice came out softer and smoother than he could have ever expected it. "You're okay." He placed his hand on Eddie's back and felt the thrumming of his heart. 

"I'm not! I have nowhere to go… I've never had a job! My mom… she wouldn't let me. Oh God, I don't even have any money of my own… I'm only eighteen. Oh God, I'm in high school!" He started to choke on his breath.  _ Do something! _

"Eddie," Stan tried. "Eddie, listen to me. The nurses won't help you unless ask them."  _ Help him! Come on!  _

"I can't breathe, oh my God, I can't." Richie remembered that Eddie kept his inhaler in his pocket.  _ Fuck. I've got to help him. I have to. So man the fuck up and stick your hand in his pants.  _

"Sorry, bud," Richie put his hand in Eddie's pocket.  _ Don't think about his dick! Don't think about his dick!  _ Richie sighed in relief as he wrapped his hands around the inhaler. 

Eddie grabbed it from Richie and shoved it into his mouth and took a couple of hits.  _ Thank fuck. Thank fucking Christ.  _ Eddie took a few minutes to regain his breathing. Richie rubbed his back through the whole ordeal. 

When Eddie regained himself, he gave a Richie a look that melted his heart and Richie knew in that moment he was completely head over heels for him.    
  


* * *

By dinnertime, Richie and Eddie had come up with their own private game of exchanging flirtatious glances. Mike was too preoccupied with Beverly's absence and Stan was all mucked up without Bill to moon over, so Richie put all his attention on Eddie.

_ This is it. This is love. When's the last time someone made you feel like this? He's so cute! Even in those dumb paper clothes and in this boring hell hole, he still manages to be the way he is! My god, my heart is aflame! I feel gay! In both senses of the word! Glitter and be gay and all that shit! _

Eddie laughed over his plate of fries. They were exchanging stories of their lives on the outside. It was nice. It was grounding.

"So last year at my school, this kid pulled a senior prank where he convinced the entire football team to skip school one day and he somehow got like fifty dogs and put varsity jackets on them and let them loose in the halls. He blasted "I Was a Teenage Werewolf" by The Cure over the intercom and claimed that the football team had transformed into wolves," Eddie explained. Richie roared with laughter. "I'm not kidding! He never even got caught!"

"That was me!" Richie said loud enough for Stan to give him the eye roll of the century. "And that song is by The Cramps, not The Cure. Jeez, Swaghetti."

"No way! I didn't even know you  _ went  _ to Derry High. I never saw you in the halls."

"I did! I was even salutatorian for my class! Oh my dear, sweet, Eds. What rock have you been hiding under?"

"You're both fucking faggots." Henry called from the other side of the room. Vic squirmed uncomfortably in his chair and Belch averted his eyes. Patrick just laughed and stole something from Henry's plate.  _ Wait, when did they start getting chummy?  _ Patrick stared at Richie and Eddie through those awful dead eyes. Richie couldn't help but think about what he'd said earlier.  _ Don't you hate the way Bill looks at Eddie.  _

Eddie took Richie by surprised and flipped Henry off. Richie practically fell out of his chair giggling. The tech didn't think it was so funny and scolded them.  _ Worth it.  _

And then the giddiness was all gone. There was no reason it should disappear and maybe that's why it hurt so much. 

 

* * *

 

When Eddie went to take his shower, Richie stayed with Stan in the common room. His heart hurt again like a lead balloon sinking into the pit of his stomach. It hurt and the fact that there was no reason why it should hurt only made it hurt more. He felt his eyes start to tear up again.  _ Don't cry. Don't. But what if it never gets better? Sure you felt alright for a few hours but now you've sunk again. Why keep on living if it all comes back to this. I can't take it. I really can't. I don't know how anyone can live like this. _ He let his head rest on Stan's shoulder. 

"Stan," Richie whispered, holding tears back, "can I ask you something?"

"You just did." Stan had a strange sense of humor. 

"I'm being serious."

"Ok, I'm sorry. What is it?"  _ Ask him. Be honest. If all you can do today is take one step closer to being able to speak the truth, start here. You need help. Admit it. Get it. Start with Stan. He knows what it's like. _

"Why did you never call? When we were in the kids' ward together… we exchanged phone numbers and everything but you never called." And there it was. 

"You didn't call me either."

"I know, but I don't think you would've answered if I had."  _ He wouldn't have. Why should he? You're the black hole boy. Try to deny, try to shove it down, try to drink it away or fuck it away or smoke it out of your mind – it doesn't matter. You suck away everyone's life and joy and happiness. You do. Eddie may have been the one to freak out, but when you get out of here you have no place to go either. It's no wonder that Stan didn't want anything to do with you.  _

"Yeah."  _ Yeah.  _

"Why? I know I'm annoying… I know I get off track… but I thought we were friends. Are we friends?" _Please say we are. I'm sorry to you too, Stan. I'm sorry to everyone. I'm sorry I annoy you and that your perfectness frustrates me. You're so good and kind and you don't deserve any of the shit I give you. Please say we're friends. Please._

"Yes. We're friends." 

"Then why?" 

"You know how it is in places like this. I guess I just wanted to keep my worlds separate. I don't want to embrace my disorder… I really don't. I guess me not calling you was part of it."

"I get that." He did. "It's like you need someone in here… it can be so isolating so you end up friends with people you'd normally never talk to. Not in a bad way, it's just we're so different. Like on the outside, I don't think we would've become friends."  _ We wouldn't have. He's a good person. And you… well you're you.  _ In the children's ward, Richie had been just as loud and brash as the person he'd grown into now, but he'd also been so much scareder then. But Stan had been nice and older and kind and had watched out for him. Until he was released of course. 

"Yeah. I like you though, Rich."  _ Is he just saying that? Am I making him lie? _ "I'm glad we met each other. Are you going to try to get discharged today?"  _ That's the question, Rich. You've been trying to avoid it all day, but now here it is. Think.  _

"No." A breath out. A start. _ Be honest. _ "I want to, though. Like there's nothing in this world I'd like more than to see the sun rise tomorrow and hear the birds chirp, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

"But I know I need to stay here. I know I'm frocked up."

"Frocked up?"

"Yeppers."

Stan groaned but it somehow Richie feel a little better. He smiled. 

"Oh, Stan the Man, you love me. Admit it."  _ Play along Stan. Please.  _

"Ok, you dork. So you'll stay?"

"Yes, but you know how quick my mind changes itself."

"I do."

"Well I've got another brilliant plan."  _ Pull something out of your ass. You've pulled off bigger tricks before. Guts and glory. It doesn't have to be real. Make Stan laugh. Give him some of your Richie charm.  _

"Do share."

"I'm going to take them to court. Obviously after last night they aren't going to want to release me, so I'll fight them on it." The words came easy from Richie's mouth, almost as though they weren't complete bullshit on a whim. 

"You don't have to."

"But I will. I know I will."  _ Get help! Start with Stan!  _ Richie's mind screamed at him now. "Can I tell you something?"

"You just did."

Richie laughed.

"Ok, but I'm going to be serious again."  _ Do it.  _

"Ok."

"When I told the ER that I was going to shoot myself if they didn't bring me here… I don't how much of that was a lie to get help. I'm so tired of this, Stan." And then the barriers were gone and the tears came. "I woke up this morning feeling so  _ empty _ . It– it– it's like my chest is actually empty and I can't even remember what it's like to feel whole again… and then throughout today… it was like someone just kept zapping my brain. How does that happen to me? I felt so damn wound-up for two months and now this… Why can't I be normal, Stan? I don't even know what that feels like. I don't want to kill myself, I really,  _ really,  _ don't. I'm just so tired." 

"You need to talk to Dr. Koontz. I know you've seen a lot of bad psychiatrists and therapists, but I also know you like to refuse help. Koontz is good. He's helped me more than any other doctor. Or I guess it's that he lets me help myself."  _ Get help. Get help. Get help.  _

"I want that, Stan. I do." Richie wiped at his tears and put on Mr. Alright. "So here's the plan."

Richie relayed his improved cavalier plan. Stan was not amused.

 

* * *

 

When it came time for the nurses to divvy out medicine. Richie's mind went into a full cacophony. 

_ Ok, Richie. You can do this. You can do it. You can! The lovely nurse who you will under no circumstances flirt with is going to hand you a tablet of Lithium. You are going to take it.  _ You are going to take it.  _ Step one. You are  _ not  _ going to ask for an Ativan. You think you're so strong and smart and badass – well stop trying to prove it to others. Prove it to yourself. No Ativan. Sure it would be nice to turn your brain off. Sure you're exhausted despite not doing anything today. Sure Ativan is sublime. Sure. But Dr. Koontz was right, goddamnit. You have a motherfucking addictive personality. No Ativan. They wouldn't give it to you anyway and then you'd be begging to blow someone for it and you'd get off too. So don't. Do it for yourself.  _

The nurse handed him his Lithium.  _ Put it in your mouth. Place it on your tongue and swallow. Easy as pie. Do it.  _ He put it in his mouth.  _ Swallow! Goddammit! Sure it would be great to get kicks and be manic and have fun and smoke weed and get drunk and have sex, but you can't let yourself do that. Take the fucking pill. Sure you'll be killing fun times Rich, but you'll also be fighting against that impending black hole you've become. No more mania, fine. At least it'll help the depression too. You could be so much better than who you are now. You've spent so long pretending that everyone else is shitting on you, but you're lying to yourself. The only one squashing your brilliancy is you. So stop shitting on the fucking diamonds and show the world you have something to give it too.  _ He swallowed the pill. He flashed his tongue to Eddie and Stan, peacocking the fact that he hadn't hid the pill anywhere. Stan gave him a lovely, restrained smile of approval. Eddie hugged him.

Richie didn't ask for an Ativan. 

* * *

  
  


"I'm proud of you," Eddie said as soon as they were in room 714 for the night. They each collapsed on their own beds. Richie wanted nothing more than to hold Eddie, but the dividing line mocked him. 

"For what?"

"Taking your medicine. I know it's hard for you."

"Do you?"

"Well, I don't know what it's like to be inside your head, but I can see it on your face, Rich." Eddie shared a small smile with him. It was sad, but it was sweet.  _ He gets you. He does.  _ It was no longer a triumph in Richie's mind. It was a fact now. 

_ Say something, Richie. You know what you need to say.  _

"I'm sorry, Eds," Richie's voice cracked and felt all the strange awful vibrant and crashing energy come down upon his shoulders. He was so goddamned tired. The sucking emptiness was still in his chest and it ripped everything good away. He buried his head in his hands and cried thicker, truer tears than he'd ever had before. 

"Why are you sorry?" Eddie said in an incredibly magnanimous voice. Richie looked up and saw that his eyes were glistening too. 

"I shouldn't have called you OCD. I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. It's not enough that I have to crash my own progress but I go around ruining other people's too."

"You didn't ruin anything."

"I made you cry."

"You didn't make me do anything," Eddie laughed lightly, but there was no tension to dispel. "Look, I've only seen Dr. Koontz once so far, but he's helped me understand myself better. You didn't cause my anxiety attack. Yeah you were being kind of dick, but I know you didn't mean it. Besides, you're the one who comforted me." Richie started to cry again. "Why are you crying, Rich? Help me understand."  _ Understand. _

"I… I don't know. It's like there's this awful disconnect between my brain and the outside world. Like this morning when we were talking, you were saying nice things. I like you a lot Eddie and you were being so kind, but I felt nothing at all. I'm just empty. I feel like an awful person. It's like my brain won't let me be happy. And then when I'm ready to accept lifelong despair it turns over and puts me into overdrive. It's been so long since I've been stable. I… I don't know." He cried harder. The techs would check in soon. Richie wiped his eyes on his sleeve and shut them tight. 

And then there were hands holding him, stroking his back and pulling him close. Richie looked up and saw that Eddie had shimmied out of his wristband again. Richie wanted to push Eddie back to his own side because a tech could come in any minute – hell, one could just peek through the door. Sure they weren't doing anything bad, but  _ god _ Richie didn't want to get Eddie in trouble. But he was still himself and he was still selfish. He let Eddie hold him. 

"I was talking to Bill last night,"  _ Don't you hate the way Bill looks at Eddie.  _ The words wouldn't leave Richie's mind even as he tried to squash them. "I… I told him that I like you. I've… I've never dated anyone. I'm eighteen and I haven't even had my first kiss. Bill thinks that's why I like you, because I've never been able to do that before. He said that it's just because we've been forced into closeness. It made a lot of since when he said it, and to tell you the truth, you were right when you said I had a crush on him the first night I was here. God, I thought Stan was hot too. And Mike. And Ben. I'm so fucking gay, Richie. Maybe Bill's right and I'm just repressed or whatever, but all day long… I just really like you Rich. And fuck, we're young. We're still teenagers. You're barely out of high school and I haven't even graduated yet. What I'm trying to say is it doesn't really matter to me why I like you. I just do. You're annoying and dopey but you're also so fucking smart and funny and cute and I don't care that I'm supposed to be focusing on myself in here because I fucking like you and I think you like me too. And God! I'm messing this all up."

Richie tilted his chin up. "I like you too."  _ Don't kiss him. Don't. You aren't here to flirt. You aren't here to fuck. And God, he hasn't so much as kissed anyone. But he's sweet. And he thinks you're sweet. And you're the same age. And goddamnit. But if you kissed him… you're the one who's all fucked up, you're the one who's slept with a million people, you're the one who's done drugs and messed your life up and hurt other people… If you kissed him, you'd be taking advantage of him. So don't kiss– _

Eddie kissed him. It was innocent and bumbling. They bumped noses and Richie's glasses totally got in the way, but it was good. It was  _ so _ good. As soon as it was over, footsteps came down the hall and Eddie rushed back to his side and slipped his bracelet back over his thin wrist. If the tech thought they looked at all flustered, he was kind enough to keep mum about it. 

They fell asleep early, with the light still on, facing each other in their own separate beds. Five feet and one line apart never felt so small. Richie's heart still hurt, but now he was sure that it wouldn't last forever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: Bipolar mood spiraling, suicidal thoughts


	8. Sunday Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't a ~real~ chapter, but rather a collection of flash and micro fiction stories from around the wards on Sunday. The next chapter will fall back into the structure I've established, but things are going to get very heated very soon.

#  Interlude: Sunday Stories

##  Robin Day

Sunday was a good day. Or well, it was good as far as life in the seventh floor went. There were only two sessions of group therapy and the psychiatrists took the day off which added another layer of respite. But then again, there's no rest for the weary. Sunday in A Ward started at midnight when Beverly Marsh walked in. The techs dropped her off in the common room with Bill and Stan. The tension was thick and foggy. Bill was the first to say something.

"Huh-huh-huh-hi Bev." He gave her a little smile. 

"Hi Bill."

"We missed you all day," Stan said. He cleared his throat. "Are… are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I just had a stomach bug earlier. Nothing to worry about." Neither Bill nor Stan looked very convinced. 

"Suh-so… why are you here?"

"They're reassigning me to your ward. You guys don't even know how lucky you are." She laughed and flashed them her red tag. "I made a run for it."

"Oh my Guh-God. How fuh-far did you get?"

"The roof. Yesterday, the judge ordered me to stay here for ten days. I just… I had to have something to look forward. I had to remind myself there was something outside of here."

"So you went to the roof?" Stan asked incredulous.

"I did! It was amazing, Stanny. The sun was just setting and it was warm and beautiful and I heard the birds sing."

Stan lit up. "What kind of birds?"

"Oh. I'm not sure, I didn't see them, but I could hear them."

"What did they sound like?"

"I don't know how to describe it."

"Can you try? Please?" There was something desperate in Stan's voice that compelled Beverly to answer.

"Well I guess it was kind of like this cheery chirring. It was almost like laughing. It was nice."

"I bet they were robins," Stan sighed. "God, I bet today was a robin day."

"Ruh-robin day?"

"You know. Every year, the robins cross through Derry during their migration and we'll get one to three days where the robins stay in town to rest up and eat the berries off all the trees. It's amazing. Those days are my favorite."

"That explain why every year there's a huge uptick in bird shit," Beverly laughed. 

The night nurse on duty tonight, Yolanda, approached them with a big brown paper bag. It was strange, almost as though they were getting a new patient completely. 

"Alright, Beverly," she said, throwing a glare at Bill and Stan.

"Wuh-w-we should guh-give you some puh-privacy," Bill said, standing up. 

Yolanda sighed. "I actually have to talk to all three of you."

"Why?" Beverly asked, shooting an especially concerned look Bill's way. If he didn't know better, he might confuse the look with fear. 

"Well, the only empty bed we have is in Stan's room." Ben's bed. "We have other rooms, but they're on the other end of the hall and after _ recent events, _ the administrators have decided you need to be in a room close to the nurses' station."

"Oh," Beverly said, "uh, does that mean Stan and I are roommates? I mean, I'm sure he's really great and all…"

"We're not rooming you with a boy, missy." Beverly didn't like one bit of how Yolanda said that. "But Bill has the only single in this ward."

"Suh-suh-s-s-s–"

"Go get your stuff out of your room, Bill. You're moving in with Stan."

##  Typewriter

 

"You have a typewriter?" Stan laughed as Bill set his typewriter down next to the box of all he had accumulated in his 83 (or rather now that midnight had passed, 84) days. 

"I'm a ruh-ruh-writer, aren't I?" Bill smiled in a charming, eye-crinkling manner that made Stan's heart sop just for a second. "It's thu-the only thing I cuh-could g-get past security checks." He patted the machine. "This, my fuh-friend is a genuine Hermes Baby circa '19-fucking-52' to quote my agent and it is guh-guaranteed to be suicide puh-proof by the fine folks of this facility."

"I can think of a million ways just off the top of my head to kill myself with that."

"Yeah. Suh-so can I." Bill glanced at Stan's bandages. "Are you getting your stitches out soon?"

"Tomorrow. Or today, I guess. It's been a long night."

"Yuh-you could say that again." Bill pulled a frankly egregious amount of paper from his box. The stack was made up of all sort of different sheets of paper, different colors, different thickness, different size. The edges were all furled in different directions and it appeared that Bill had made not one single attempt at straightening it. It drove Stan nuts. He looked away. 

"So you said you have an agent? I mean you told us all that you'd published your writing before, you just never go all that in depth about it. Come to think of it, I don't even know what type of writing you do."

Bill placed the stack on his side table next to the typewriter. 

"Nuh-novels. Short stories. I've duh-done a few screenplays, too."

"No kidding," Stan mused and gazed at Bill with his soft eyes. "Wait, your full name is William, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Bill blushed.

"Oh my God, you're William Denbrough." There were two reasons why someone from Derry would know Bill's full name. His writing career was unfortunately the less common of the two. Bill didn't know how he'd deal with Stan knowing about Georgie. Having Patrick know was already horrible, but having someone Bill actually liked knowing, it was unfathomable. "You write horror books, right?" Bill breathed out a secret sigh of relief.

"I shu-sure d-do. Wuh-would you mind k-keeping it to yourself?"

"I wouldn't say anything without your permission."

"Thu-thanks."

##  Naked

 

Mike changed into his clothes for the day in the bathroom like he'd done everyday since arriving in the ward. If anyone asked, he'd assure them it was out of modesty, but there was some underlying fear of the vulnerability of being naked in front of Henry Bowers. It was an unspoken agreement now that he would always change in the bathroom and Henry would always change in the room. Mike changed quick, a probable result of growing up tough, so he always gave an extra minute or two of courtesy. Well, he normally did, but his impending release threw him off a bit and he had the unlucky pleasure of opening the door to find Henry shirtless. He was ready to whip around before Henry could notice him, but then he saw the scars.

Thick, ropey, raised tissue lined wrapped around his back in the way only a good belting with the buckle could produce. On the few times Mike'd misbehaved as a child, he was given the occasional spanking, but this was different. Brutal. For the first time, Mike considered the fact that his family wasn't the only victim of Butch Bowers' rage. 

"What the fuck are you looking at?" Henry turned around and glowered at Mike.

"Henry… shit man, I'm sorry."

"Turn the fuck around, I don't want no ape faggot ogling me." 

Mike turned around.

##  Chickadee and Stitches

 

"Holy hell! Beverly, what the hell are you doing here?" Richie bounded out of his room with Eddie following his heels. 

"Trashmouth!" Beverly wrapped him in a hug, but pulled away after half a beat. There was something about his tall thin frame and moppish dark hair that felt… off. She'd never had such a feeling in his presence before and it's sudden appearance gave her a shiver. Richie didn't notice. 

"They muh-moved h-h-her to our w-ward last night."

Bev held up her red-tagged bracelet.

"Holy hell!" Richie exclaimed. "Wear it with pride, my chickadee." Stan rolled his eyes.

"Well you know me, I just had to get a smoke break," Bev winked.

"You smoke? Do you even know how unhealthy that is?" Eddie asked, groping his inhaler in his pocket.

"Oh, Eds, that's what makes it so fun," Richie pinched Eddie's cheek. Eddie shook off his hand.

"Ew. If I ever catch you with ash breath, I will  _ not  _ be kissing you."

"Kissing?" Beverly asked. "Am I missing something? Should we be ringing wedding bells?"

"No!" said Eddie.

"Yes!" said Richie.

"We like each other, that's all." Eddie took Richie's hand and laughed.

"You should really focus on your recovery," Stan said.

"Boo, we're just having fun," Richie said and rested his head on Eddie's shoulder, awkwardly bridging the gap in their heights. 

"You shuh-shouldn't," Bill snapped. The air in the room went stiff.

"I know we talked about it Bill," Eddie said, "and I'm keeping what you said, but like Richie said, we're just having fun."

"Ruh-right."

"Alright," a tech came to where the losers were gathered in the common room with his med cart to take their vitals. 

Stan hated Sundays. To be fair, it was only his second Sunday in the ward, and hopefully his last, but the change in schedule irked him all the same. Where the lack of structure comforted people like Eddie and Bill, it left Stan on edge. The whiteboard in the hall still had Saturday written on it and Stan couldn't bare to look at it. Today, having vitals before breakfast was just  _ wrong. _ He averted his eyes as the techs did their morning medical rounds. The rest of the A Warders couldn't help but watch as the tech paid special attention to Bill. That coupled with his day long physical was enough for Stan to shoot him a worried look.

"Alright guys," the tech said as he finished taking their blood pressures, "and, uh, gal, it's stretch day."

"Stretch day?" Eddie asked.

"It's their bullshit way of saying we get to exercise in here," Richie explained.

"Well don't complain too much, their giving you yoga today," the tech said as he bent Richie's wrist lightly back and forth in a sad excuse of a stretch. He continued with the rest of the losers but stopped before Stan's turn.

"Alright, Stitches, we can't stretch your wrists–"

"Don't call me Stitches."

"Sorry. I was just trying to make some light–"

"Don't. It's demeaning."

Stan rubbed at his gauze-wrapped wrists. Bill put a hand on his shoulder. 

##  BOOST!

 

"Oh my God," Mike pulled Beverly into his arms just as soon as he crossed the threshold of the dining room. And there it was again – a shiver. Beverly suddenly felt herself wishing people would stop hugging her. "After yesterday… and then you weren't there when I woke up and the techs wouldn't tell me anything. God, I'm so happy your okay." Bev smiled. "Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Okay. Are you okay?"

"Yes. Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" The tech handed them their trays and they sat with the rest of the losers. "More importantly, are  _ you _ okay? I thought you were supposed to be discharged yesterday."

Mike's face grew grim. "I was."

"Wuh-what h-h-happened?" Bill, the ever-kind leader asked as he worked on opening a suspiciously thick shake that had appeared on his plate. The label read,  _ BOOST! Very High Calorie!  _ Bill didn't look too happy to have it. 

"Oh, you know. Things happen." Mike's tone marked the end of that conversation. 

The rest of breakfast went by smoothly. Patrick stayed in his perch next to Henry and just for a second, Stan could swear he saw Patrick's hand rest on Henry's thigh. 

##  Yoga, Goddamn

 

"And breathe in! Now slowly out!"

"Oh my  _ god,"  _ Richie said a bit too loud to be a whisper, "this is so  _ stupid _ ."

Beverly chuckled next to him; Eddie flicked his back. 

"Could you guys be quiet?" Stan hushed. He was all in. Lotus position and all that shit. Bill was too, although he couldn't bring his feet to rest on the top of his thighs like Stan. But he wouldn't think about his roommate's flexibility. That would be wildly inappropriate. 

Henry sat between Belch and Vic, absolutely fuming. His arms were crossed and his legs were stretched out in a 'v' in front of him. 

Mike was on Vic's other side. 

"Wanna play Madden when we're done," Vic stage whispered to him.

"Sure, Vic. We can do that," Mike whispered back. 

"Wait, you guys get video games?" Richie unfurled from the tangle of limbs he'd spun himself into. 

"You guys don't?" Mike asked with a quiet laugh. 

"Shush," Bill said. "Muh-Madden's a stupid g-g-game anyways. Buh-besides, B Ward only has b-basic cable and w-we have l-like 300 channels." This seemed to satisfy Richie. 

"Hey Billy, how do you know so much about B Ward?" The slimy voice of Patrick curled into a whisper only Bill could hear. But hey, someone had to sit next to him and better Bill than anyone else. 

Bill closed his eyes and focused on yoga as the instructor had them move into downward dog. 

##  The Pencil Theory

 

"Oh my God, you guys," Eddie said once the A Warders had returned to the common room. He picked up the stack of word searches and flipped through them. 

"What is it, my dear?" Richie asked and slung his arm around Eddie.

"The tuh-time has c-come," Bill said, taking the stack of paper, "w-we have d-d-done every suh-single word search."

"Are you sure?" Stan took the stack and shuffled through the mess of shoddily completed papers. 

"It huh-happens every f-f-few weeks." Bill picked up the box of half-sized colored pencils. Every single color was dull and the pencil sharpener in the back had long been removed. "I th-think there's s-some puh-printer p-paper left in the c-cabinet. W-we can draw or duh-do hangman."

"Oh Billy, I think your forget the number jumble searches," Richie said, grabbing a stack of half completed sheets from the cabinet. 

"He's not forgetting anything," said Stan. "You know as well as I do that Ben was the only one who could make sense of those things."

"Oh Ben and his beautiful architect brain!" Richie lamented, "Where is he now? Nobody knows!"

"I know," said Beverly. "He came to visit me last night."

"And there's the wedding bells," Stan rolled his eyes.

"Whatever, I'm going to complete these number fuckers and give them to Ben when he comes to visit tonight," Beverly snatched the papers from Richie.

"And they say straight people have no pride," Richie grabbed the box of pencils. Like the colored pencils, the regular ones were also golf-sized.

"Why are they so short?" Eddie asked. "Like what's wrong with regular sized pencils?"

"Well, I have a theory," Richie said.

"Of course you did," Stan said.

Richie picked up one of the pencils and held to his eye. "Well, I figure if I tried jamming it up here to give myself a lobotomy, it wouldn't go far enough to do any real damage."

Bill beeped him; Eddie laughed; the nurse glared.

 

##  Extend Your Stay Bingo

 

"I. am. so. bored. I. am. so. bored. I am  _ sooooooooooooooo _ bored. Oh my God!"

"Buh-beep-beep, Richie."

"How long has it been?"

Lunch was just as boring as the rest of the day had been. Richie had already devoured everything on his plate and half of Bill's too.

"Five minutes," Mike said.

"Oh my lovely Mike and his eternal clock," Beverly giggled. 

"You know, I think we should make up a game. To pass the time, ya know? I have a good idea," Richie said.

"Please share," Beverly mused.

"Well, I'm going to call it 'extend your stay bingo.' Basically you do stupid shit like I did with the pencil and wait for the nurses to tack on a few extra days."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," Stan said.

"Well of course  _ you _ would say that. You haven't done anything wrong the whole time you've been here."

Stan dropped his voice to a whisper. "Between you and me, I've got a pencil hidden in my mattress."

"Holy shit! What a badass!" Richie exclaimed, more than a bit too loud. 

"Shut up!" Stan whispered back, but he couldn't contain a smile.

"Oh relax, no one heard."

The tech let Richie, Bill, and Beverly leave as soon as they finished eating. Mike, Eddie, and Stan stayed behind.

"Hey," Mike said in a low voice, "have any of you guys noticed that Bill keeps giving away his food? I mean it's not a huge deal, but he's really thin."

"Oh my God, he's sick, isn't he? He was at his physical for hours yesterday… what if he has cancer?"

"He doesn't," Stan said. "And he's getting better at eating. He drank his whole shake."

When they finally finished their food, Eddie was the last to leave. Patrick tapped him on his shoulder. 

"Can you believe what Bill did?" Patrick hissed.

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh God. You didn't hear. Nevermind." 

"What… what did he do?" 

"It's just… don't worry your pretty little head, pet."

"Don't call me that."

"Shit, I'm sorry. Bill told me you liked being called that."

Eddie hightailed it before he gave into his urge to add a chip to his bingo card.

##  Rot

"God-fuck. I think my brain is rotting out of my face holes," Richie threw himself on the lounge couch.

"None of that made sense," Beverly laughed and shoved Richie's legs away to make room to sit. 

"Yeah, what's God-fuck supposed to mean?" Eddie wasn't so eager for his own seat and squished in next to Richie. 

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it's sacrilegious," Stan said. He straightened his cuffs. They were still a few hours away from visitation, but he'd been fastidiously adjusting his outfit all day. 

"I fuh-feel l-like you guys are t-t-too hung up on the Guh-God-fuck aspect. Wuh-what I want to n-n-know is what he muh-means by face holes."

"Face holes," Richie dangled his head off the side of the couch. He pushed his glasses up, drew his fingertips to his eyes, and stretched the lids open, "are exactly what they sound like. God! Someone, quick, grab a pencil! We've got to try."'

They were going to beep them when a nurse showed up and did it for them. 

"Stop it," she warned, "before someone who doesn't know you sees it and thinks you're being serious." It was Karen, the kind nurse who had talked Eddie down from his panic attack on the first day. "Eddie, I need to talk to you, why don't we go into the therapy room so we can have some privacy?"

Richie  _ ooooed _ and Bill beeped him.

"Is huh-he okay?" As Bill spoke, Richie gave him a strange sort of look.  _ Don't you hate the way Bill looks at Eddie? _

"He's fine, I just need to speak to him in private."

Eddie felt himself start to panic, but then he didn't. It was a strange sort of thing.

The therapy room in Ward A was the room that was typically reserved for psychiatric appointments and check-ins with social workers. Eddie took the chair in the corner out of force of habit. 

"What's this about?" Eddie asked as soon as the door was closed behind them. He shifted in his seat. 

"You're going to be discharged tonight. We need to go through some papers. There's an important matter I need to discuss–"

"I can't." Tears pricked at the corner of Eddie's eyes.

"I'm sorry?"

"I can't leave… not yet. I don't know what would happen next– and every time I think about it, my chest just tenses up, you know? God, I'm sorry Karen. I can't– I can't leave. Please don't make me."

"You're okay, Eddie," she rubbed his shoulder. "You're okay, I promise. We aren't going to kick you out, ok?"

"Thank you," Eddie shook in his chair. "It's just my whole life… I can't see anything beyond this moment right now. Like before I knew I'd be going to college and I'd get out of town and I could start my life… now, I don't know. I missed all of school on Thursday and Friday and I'm going to be so far behind and God. What if I don't graduate? What if my colleges rescind my acceptances? What if–"

"Hey, let's breathe, ok? Just like before. In."

_ In. _

"Out."

_ Out.  _

"I'm going to promise you right now that I am going to make sure your social worker does everything in her power to get your school to accommodate you, ok?"

"Ok."

"Now when you are able to be released, where will you go?"

"With my mom. I don't want to, but I know I will. Sometimes… sometimes I hate her and I know it's wrong, but I can't help it. I don't even know why, but when she visited I just sort of fell out of my body. And now I took her off my list and I've been ignoring her phone calls… she's going to be so mad."

"Does your mother get violent when she's angry?"

"No. See? There's no reason for me to hate her. She's a single mom and she's never once done so much as spank me. I… I don't know why, but I don't want to ever see her again."

"Well that's actually something I wanted to talk to you about. When you came in here, you came with pills, right?"

"Yes, my medicine. God, I haven't taken any of it since," Eddie shivered, "oh God, what is that? Do I have the shakes? Oh God, I'm getting sick I just know it… and Bill's sick and what if I'm the one who got him sick?"

"Bill isn't sick and according to your vitals this morning, you aren't either. Now let's go back to the pills, is your mother the one who gives them to you?"

"Yes. Ever since I was a kid."

"Well when you got here, the nurse who admitted you sent them to the pharmacy to get a composition report. I think she meant to try and figure out what medicine you needed."

"She didn't give me anything."

"That's the thing. I came across the file today. Diane must've forgotten about it."

"What is it? What… What have I been taking?" 

"Microcrystalline Cellulose. I know it's a scary sounding name, but it's actually an inert substance that's often used as an inactive filler in medication. But your pills are pure microcrystalline cellulose and nothing else."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, I'm really sorry to have to tell you this, Eddie, but you've been taking sugar pills."

##  See You Next Tuesday

It was personal time, and for once, it seemed like people were taking advantage of that. When he finished talking with the nurse, Eddie retreated to his room where Richie was sitting up in bed reading a comic book.

"Eds, what was that about?"

"You know when I was a freshman, in science class they taught us about placebos. You know, bullshit medicine."

"Yeah?"

"My mom… my mom has been feeding me placebo pills all my life. Fuck, I don't even know if my inhaler is real."

"Oh my God, your mom is a huge see-you-next-tuesday."

"A what?"

"A C U Next– oh nevermind, my innocent little prince. Are you okay?"

Eddie sat on the corner of his bed and looked down at his hands. They had stopped shaking.

"Yeah. I think I am. Is that bad? I think I really am okay. Maybe… maybe even better than I was before. Does that sound nuts?"

"Oh my Eddie-Spaghetti, you have  _ so _ much to talk about with Dr. Koontz."

"Beep-beep!" Eddie laughed. A pleasant silence feel over the room. Eddie sat as close to the line as possible, and Richie joined him. They held each other's unbraceleted hands. 

"So… are they discharging you tonight?" Richie asked with an edge of nervousness. 

"No. I decided I'm going to stay, at least for a few more days. God… I just… it's so weird. My childhood is over now. I mean, I knew it was ending, but being here… I'll never get to be a kid again."

"Oh, Eds, you have plenty of time to kid around – literally and figuratively, my friend."

"I… I missed my senior prom. It was yesterday. I didn't even think about it, but now it's over." Eddie bowed his head. 

"Hey, when we get out of here, we can go dancing, okay? You ever hear about The Falcon?"

"The gay bar?"

"Yeah. It's pretty tame, but they don't card. Mostly it's just gay dudes chilling out, but it would be nice for us to just go. We don't even need to drink if you don't want to. I just… when I said I liked you, I really meant it."

Eddie planted his hand behind him and stretched over to place a kiss on Richie's cheek.

##  Tape!

Eddie decided to spend the rest of the afternoon taking a nap. Richie decided it would be nice to do some crafts.

"Tape," he said to the nurse. She ripped him off a strip. He walked away.

"Tape," he said again thirty seconds later. She gave him another strip.

"Tape," he said again.

"Tape," he said again.

"Tape–"

"I'm not giving you anymore tape!" the nurse finally snapped. "What are you doing?"

"Just give me one more strip." She relented. Richie stared into her eyes, took the piece of tape, and stretched it across his nose like a pig's. The nurse was not amused. He ripped the tape off and handed her a fistful of the dull colored pencils. "Can you sharpen these? We also need new word searches, stat. Or, uh, please?"

"Fine."

 

##  The Limit

Bill was called into the visitation room an hour before visitation was scheduled to start. That was strange for two reasons. One, visitation was the one thing that always happened at the exact same time every day. Two, Bill hadn't had a visitor since his first week in the ward. And yet, there was a gorgeous red-haired woman waiting for him. 

"Audra?"

"Bill." She stood up and gave him a soft, polite hug. 

"Ms. Philips made an arrangement to preserve your privacy, William."

"It's Buh-Bill."

"Right. Well I'll just be in the corner. Enjoy your time together." The tech went to his perch. 

"W-w-wh-why are you huh-here?" Bill asked just as soon as they both sat down. There was something stiff in the air. He hadn't seen Audra in 84 days. She looked tired. Beautiful, but tired.

"You have a beard," she noted in what might have been a wistful tone. "Don't they let you shave?"

"Thuh-they luh-let other p-people shave in fuh-front of a n-nurse. Not m-m-me."

"Well it looks nice, Bill." Bill did not look nice and he knew it. He was still wearing the same shirt from day 82. He knew he'd have to shower soon, at least as a courtesy to Stan; he found that he had a compulsion to shower for Stan. 

"Wuh-w-why are you here?"

"I'm sorry, Bill. I'm sorry that I ended our relationship over the phone. I'm sorry I did it while you're still in here. I had to see you in person, I had to apologize. I love you Bill, I really do. I didn't want to end things, but I had to. For the first month, I called you everyday and you answered fifteen times. Then last month you only answered five."

"I'm suh-s-s-s-s-suh-sss-sorry."

"I don't know what happened to you. I wanted… I wanted to be able to help you. I wanted to be your rock. I wanted to help, but I couldn't. I hate that I couldn't help. I wanted to be the person who could. Why couldn't you just snap out of it?"

"Y-y-y-y-yy-you nuh-n-n-n-n–"

"I do know, Bill. I do. If it were a choice… you would've stopped it. I keep reminding myself of that. But God where did this come from? We were together for three years and you never once showed any sign of any of this."

"I'm suh-s-s-ss-s-ss-suh– duh-d-d-do you h-h-have a p-ppppp-pen?"

Audra pulled a pocket notebook and pencil out of her purse. She handed them over. Bill took his time writing, before handing it back.

_ Audra, I'm sorry. I  _ ~~_ wish _ ~~ _ hope we can still be friends. I know how stupid that sounds, I know how stupid this all sounds. I need you to know this: it was not your fault. Tear this page out and post it on you fridge. I know you and I know you'll forget that. I'll say it again:  _ _ it was not your fault. _

_ My brother's name was George Elmer Denbrough, but my family called him Georgie. He was murdered when I was thirteen; he was only nine. The police never caught who did it. I found his  _ ~~_ mutilated _ ~~ _ body. That's the first time I've written his name since he died, I think. I haven't been able to speak about it, I haven't been able to speak at all sometimes, as you have seen. I don't know why I shoved it all away and I don't know what happened in the restaurant. All I know is that I'm sorry you had to see it. I know it was bad. I know it  _ ~~_ scared you _ ~~ _ was hard to see. Something in my brain just tripped.  _ _ Thank you _ _ for calling the ambulance. I don't think anyone has thanked you for that, least of all me. Audra, you are strong and smart, and you were the first one in the restaurant to call. You were the one to hold napkins around my wrists even when I screamed at you to let go.  Thank you. _

_ I know you, Audra. I love you. I don't hold any resentment against you. That's something else you need to remember. I know you're scared you won't find anyone else, but  _ _ you will _ _. I'm thankful for the years we had together and I'm sorry I can't make my mouth say goodbye. So I'll write it: Goodbye, Audra Phillips _

Audra let tears track down her face as she read it. 

"I love you too, Bill. You know, the whole time I was on the plane on the way here, I tried to talk myself out of it, but I'm glad I came. My agent didn't want me to. I haven't been able to work, since… you know. I convinced him to let me come, get some closure. I miss the way you used to talk to me. You talked so slow, so carefully, I had to slow myself down to catch up. You grounded me. I was on all sorts of drugs before we met. I would still be on them if it weren't for you. You made me a better person."

Bill cursed himself. He tensed his jaw as much as he could. "Thuh-th-then wuh-why?"

Audra took Bill's hands. Hers no longer fit perfectly in his. He was thin. Scary thin. His eyes were a bit hollow, and his short beard was scraggly. He smelled nothing like he'd used to. Now he smelled clinical, but also somehow musky. It was only his kind eyes that had stayed the same. 

She stood up, kissed his forehead. Chaste. And then she left.

 

##  Norwegian Wood

Andrea Uris was the first to arrive at the regular visiting time. When her son came in, she was quick to pull him to her chest and pet his hair. 

"Stanny, how are you honey?" she said as she pulled away. 

"I'm well, mom. I'm making some very good progress with the psychiatrist here. Where's dad?"

"He's parking the car. You wouldn't believe how many people park here. It'll probably take him a few more minutes."

"Oh, ok. Is he… is he still mad?"

"Well, you know how he is. Between you and me, the next time you need to call someone on a Saturday, just call my cell phone. I'll answer." Stan smiled. "Now we made you a care package, all 100% safe to get through to you. Your dad will bring it up."

As if on cue, Donald Uris came in with a small cardboard box. 

"Hi, son," he said and took a seat next to his wife. He took a faded blue book from the top of the box and handed it to Stan. "I'm not sure why you wanted this, I know you can't exactly go bird watching in here, but I brought it any way."

"Thank you, dad." Stan smiled and traced his fingers over the softened cover. 

"And I printed the pictures I took. I thought it might be nice if you could take them into your room." He pulled a small stack of 6 x 4s out of the box and passed them over. "Now, be honest with me, are these purple martins?" 

Stan took a moment to analyze the pictures. They were gritty and a bit blurry, but overall pretty good for being taken with a cellphone. 

"They're purple martins alright." He pointed to one of the birds perched on the tree in his parent's backyard. "Their feathers are almost iridescent, isn't it amazing? That one's a male, see how slender it's body is? And this one here with the brown in its feathers is a female. See how she's a bit fluffier and rounder? These are really beautiful, thank you dad."

"It's no problem at all, son." Donald smiled too. "Now did you take yesterday off like we talked about?"

Stan looked to his mother for some sort of support, but she had none to give. Stan straightened the book and the photos until they were perfectly parallel to the edge of the table.

"Actually dad, there's something we need to talk about. After we talked, I made a conscious decision to work with the psychiatrist."

"Why on Earth–"

"I want you to come and do family therapy. There's… there's a lot for us to talk about, dad."

Donald pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Donald," Andrea said, "we could do that. It's important we do everything we can for his recovery–"

"His recovery? Can we not kid ourselves? Stan has been in and out of these places since he was twelve." 

Stan rubbed at his wrists. 

"I'm getting better. I am. The pressure you've put on me may have been exacerbating–"

"The pressure I put on you? Come on, Stan. I know I can be tough, but it's always been in your best interest."

"Please just think about it, dad. I… I want this to be the last time I'm in crisis. I really do."

"I want that too," Donald said. For a brief moment, Stan could swear he saw tears forming in the corners of his dad's eyes. "I'll think about it. How are your habits?"

"My  _ compulsions _ were acting up yesterday, after our phone call, at least."

Andrea let her own tears fall. She was the one to find him unconscious with his head lolled back in the tub. It'd been by chance she'd felt the need to stop by his apartment that day, and every night she thanked God she had made the decision to let herself in when Stan hadn't opened the door. She took her son's hands and carefully pushed up his sleeves. The stitches were out now and the scars were fat and almost caterpillar-like with the red pin pricks from where the thread had been removed. There was one on each arm and they both stretch in a perfect line all the way to the crook of his elbow. It'd been close. Way too close. Her son's arms had become maps of all his previous attempts that had been too long dismissed as calls for attention. This time, Stan had cut through tendons and was a milimeter away from hitting his radial artery. He'd spent hours in surgery as his veins were repaired and the ligaments reconstructed. It'd almost been too late. Both Andrea and her husband had stayed vigilant as he stayed in the surgery recovery center. 

Donald couldn't bare to look at his son's arms.

"We're going to do family therapy," Andrea said. She brought her son's sleeves back down with a delicate touch. He was sniffling a bit. Andrea stood up and pulled him into another hug. "I love you, Stanny," she whispered. "I love you, so, so much. We're never going to stop working to get you better, ok? I will never give up on you."

Donald stood too, and once his wife had let their son go, he carefully wrapped his arms around Stan. It was the first time Stan had been hugged by his father since he was a child.

"I won't either. I love you, son."

##  Psyched

Snack time finally rolled around. The losers gathered in their little table. It was Dion's shift. 

"Ok, Richie," he said, "I had to pull a few strings, but I heard you a had a rough night a few days ago." Dion pulled out a fresh box of Oreos. 

"Oh. My. God. I love you," Richie beamed as he was presented with five cookies and a glass of milk. 

"And we have some Fig Newtons for you, Stan," Dion fixed some on a plate for him. "What does everyone else want?"

Bill, to the surprise of the entire room, took a single Fig Newton. He ate half. 

After Richie finished devouring his plate, he stood up and pulled a folded up paper from the waistband of his sweatpants. 

"Silence, my dear friends," he hushed the room and unfolded the paper. Actually, it was three pieces of paper shoddily taped together and decorated with garrish colored pencil drawings. It was nowhere near as beautiful as the birthday card they'd given Eddie on his first night, but somehow it was better. Richie held the poster above his arms. It said: _ I WOULD BE  _ **_PSYCHED_ ** _ TO GO TO PROM WITH YOU _ in bubble letters. Below, in scrawled print, it said,  _ sorry you can't be at your actual prom, I thought about for like five whole minutes and made you this awesome poster, because hey, prom is a state of mind. Just like mental illness. Let me try some more: I'm  _ **_crazy_ ** _ for you; you make me a  _ **_maniac_ ** _ ; sorry I can't think of more. Ha ha! Anyway, I like you and you're cute and oh God I'm running out of room– _

"That is the stupidest thing I've ever seen," Eddie laughed, "I love it so fucking much."

Bill looked upset.

_ Don't you hate the way Bill looks at Eddie? _

And then he locked eyes with Beverly. He'd never noticed how much she'd looked like Audra before. 

_ He wants to fuck you. _

And then Sunday was over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: semi-graphic description of scars from a suicide attempt


	9. Act Three, Scene One: 52 Hertz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, Ben Hanscom felt he was the loneliest man on Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thanks to everyone who sent me good vibes during my hospitalization :)  
> Unfortunately, it was a very bad experience but I'm out now, and more importantly, out of crisis, so I'm doing a lot better <3  
> I haven't gotten as much writing done as I wanted to, but as I continue to get better, I'll go back to my regular speed with updates, so stay tuned! Also, check out the chapter count!

 

# Act Three, Scene One: 52 Hertz

_I'm not a writer. Putting my thoughts into words has always been hard for me. But now, I think I'll try._

_Going through life, it is easy to feel misunderstood. Everyone feels that way at some point. For me, I haven't felt just misunderstood, but also that emotion so grievously painful that it has no name. I will try to describe it: it is the feeling that you_ _cannot_ _be understood. It is the feeling that no matter how hard you work, you will never be able to communicate that vital link that bridges your mind to another's._

_Have you ever heard of the 52-hertz whale? You see, most blue whales sing at a frequency of 10-39 Hz. But this poor whale was born with some flaw in its physiology and it can only sing at 52 Hz. They call this whale "the world's loneliest whale." That is the feeling I am trying to communicate to you. I do not know if you have ever felt this feeling, but by reading this, I hope you have the ability to at least understand it._

_I've felt like this ever since I can remember. My mind does not work the way others' do. For me, English is merely the medium of communication I use to relate to the world around me. My mom always said I was a visual thinker. It takes me an inordinate amount of time to process what has been said to me and even longer to spin my thoughts into words to relay back. It took me five years to formulate my first word – it was 'hello' if you were wondering. Fifteen years later, I listen and speak well enough that people hardly even notice that I'm different, and if they do, they usually just think I'm a bit slow._

_But people still don't hear me. Not really. And so the whale sings on. But I'm tired of singing a song no one else has the capability to hear. I have spent so long trying to lower my frequency, but I can't anymore._

This is the note Ben Hanscom drafted, typed, printed out, folded in half, and neatly tucked into his pocket before walking into traffic. The car swerved.

* * *

"Here you are, Benny." Arlene Hanscom slid two eggs onto Ben's plate next to the bacon and thickly-buttered toast.

Ben looked at the food for a second.

"I'm not hungry, ma."

"Come on, Benny, you have to eat." Arlene had always had a hard time relating to her son.

"Alright." Ben ate a bit of toast.

"Did they feed you at all in there?" Questions like these had become commonplace since Ben had come from California to visit his mother. He had lost the bulk of his weight in high school, but another fifteen had come off in college. He was still flirting with the overweight line, but he was far from the obesity of his youth. Henry calling him a fatass hadn't helped his appetite.

"Ben, won't you finish the plate? Please?"

"Can we go to the store and get some vegetables today? Dr. Koontz, he was my psychiatrist in there, he said it's important for my, uh, recovery to eat well."

"We can do that. But please remember that healthy eating isn't vegetables all the time. You need protein," she pointed to eggs, "and wheat," the toast, "and fat," the butter.

Ben wasn't sure if he was supposed to respond so he didn't.

"Did that get through?" she asked. It was one of her favorite phases;  Ben didn't care for it.

"Yes," Ben said after a few seconds. "I got it," he tacked on for good measure.

"Alright, honey. I need to go to work. Unless of course… you're not going to do anything?"

The questioning tone didn't register with Ben for a few more seconds.

"Oh, uh, yes. Or no. I didn't really understand; I'm not going to kill myself when you're at work."

That was clear enough.

* * *

 

_A bundle of red hair and tears was bundled in the corner of the room. Ben sat next to her._

_"What's your deal, dude?" she pushed away her tears and asked him. Her glare didn't quite register with him._

_"I just got here. I'm not sure what my deal is. Are you okay?"_

_"I… I just got here too. I'm Beverly. Sorry for being standoffish."_

_"It's okay," he smiled, "I didn't even realize that you were being standoffish."_

_Beverly laughed through her tears._

_"I like you–"_

_"Ben Hanscom. My name is Ben Hanscom."_

_"Well, it's nice to know you," she held out her hand, "and since we're using last names, I'm Beverly Marsh."_ Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh. _Ben had always been good at analyzing poetry in school, but he'd never really had the urge to compose anything himself. He'd liked the metaphysicals best when he'd taken Intro to European Literature in his freshman year of college – the metaphors enticed him and the complex way John Donne riddled them made it almost a game for Ben to unravel. To him, poetry was a puzzle of sorts; an enjoyable puzzle. But he'd never been able to write anything of his own. The complexity enticed and frightened him. Life is a strange thing, but as far as poetry went, Beverly Marsh seemed like a good place to start._

 _"Why are you here?" Beverly asked._ You got lost in your mind again. Did she notice? How long has it been since she spoke?

_"I walked into traffic. I was trying to kill myself."_

_"That's a pretty selfish way to off yourself. I mean imagine what it'd be like to be driving a car that killed someone."_

_"I know. I… I've been so fucking depressed lately that every sense of immediacy blurred away. I've been only living in the 'right now' and fuck, the 'right now' hurts."_

_"I get that. I mean I've never wanted to kill myself, but I know how it feels to hurt in the right now – to lose sight of the rest too. That sucks you feel that way."_

_"It sucks that you feel that way too."_

_Beverly laughed; Ben laughed. It was nice. Beverly rested her head on his shoulder and that was nice too. Despite what most people assumed, Ben Hanscom loved touch comfort. He put his arm around her._

_"Alright! We have some new patients! Would you guys like to introduce yourselves?"_

_"Don't call me a guy, I'm the only fucking chick here," Beverly said, barely above a whisper. It made Ben laugh, which made her laugh. Ben knew then that that was going to be a thing. Them laughing together, them making each other laugh, that was one big Thing. A guy in the corner with red hair and a beard laughed too as did the curly haired boy next to him. That was nice too, but it wasn't quite the same. The Thing, Ben knew, was only something that could occur between him and Bev._

* * *

 

Beverly called five minutes after Mrs. Hanscom left.

"Hello?"

"Ben, oh my God, thank you for answering. I know it's early."

"Of course. I was up anyway." _I'd get out of bed to answer even if I weren't._

"I'm so sorry I couldn't visit yesterday, they took away my visitation after… well you know."

"I know. Stan told me."

"The good news is I got my phone privileges back and if I behave, they'll let me come to visitation tonight."

"I'll be there," Ben smiled. It was strange not to know if she was smiling too.

"Oh! And they moved me to A Ward."

"Why?"

"I'm not 100% sure, but it probably has to do with my great escape. You remember Ken the tech? He was on duty at visitation, remember? Anyway, he's the one who made the suggestion."

"I'm happy for you, I know that the B Ward was a litte–"

"Crazy? Yeah, I didn't realize how different the wards were until I got here. Oh! Richie and Eddie are like dating now."

"Dating?"

"Well as much as they can in here. They like kiss and stuff. They think they hide that but it's like really obvious."

"How's everyone else?"

"Well, Mike's still here. He won't really say why, but hell, none of us even know why he's here in the first place. Uh, Vic has really warmed up to Mike, in group this morning he was stuck to him like glue. Mike seems cool with it, I think we're all hoping that now that Henry's backed off, Vic can start to get better."

"What happened with Henry?"

"I'm not sure. I didn't even notice it until Vic started warming up, but Henry's really backed off. I mean it's nice, but I'm almost worried."

"Don't be. He was an asshole."

"You can say that again. Anyway Belch is doing good, I think he gets to go home today. That's about it for B Ward."

"What about Patrick?"

"He… I don't know… he gives me the creeps."

"He gave me the creeps too and I only knew him for a day."

"He… he's been saying stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"I don't know… I guess it's nothing."

"Ok."

"Anyway… you want to hear about the A Warders too, right?"

"Oh, uh, yeah."

"Well Eddie's doing really well, I think. They were even going to let him go, but he wants to stay. I don't think he has anywhere to go, but that's rich for me to say… Uh, Stan is doing good too. He's really making progress. Remember how he was when we first got here? Well he's managing his compulsions a lot better. Oh! He got his stitches out too. His parents came to visit, although you already know that, 'cause you saw him. Anyway, I think he's gonna get to go home soon. He said he's really excited to get to bird watch again. Richie's still Richie… the night you left he kinda snapped, I guess. And then he was in a real bad way the next day. But yesterday he seemed to bounce back. I think it's maybe an act, I don't know." She stopped long enough for Ben to decide that she was done speaking.

"What about Bill?" he asked.

"Oh, he's good, I guess."

"Yeah?"

"I don't know… I've actually been feeling sort of weird today."

"Why?"

"I… I don't know. Anyway, how are you?"

"I'm doing pretty good. I think the Prozac is working a lot. I'm working on getting an appointment with a psychiatrist in California so I'll be all set when I go back."

"Smart thinking, Mr. Hanscom."

"Why thank you, Ms. Beverly Marsh." _Beverly Marsh! Beverly Marsh! Beverly Marsh!_

"Are you smiling?" Ben asked with a tentative laugh. Beverly laughed too.

"Yes Ben, I'm smiling."

Ben could hear the smile.

* * *

 

_"These are fucking impossible!" Richie started ripping one of the number jumbles into a million little pieces. He was shaking so hard that the rest of the A Warders were wondering whether it was just the mania or if he was withdrawing from something too. He'd just been admitted and was already driving them all up the wall._

_"Here," Ben pulled out a fresh jumble and laid it flat for Richie to see. "'All you have to do is find the first number in one of the sequences and then trace it back through all the numbers in the preceding sequence. You need to remember that the sequence can go up, down, left, right, or sometimes all four in reverse order – but really it's easy."_

_"Jesus fuck," Richie grasped at his hair. If the looks on the other A Warders' faces were any indication, Richie was not alone in his frustration. "How do you_ know _that?" He pointed to the small stack of number jumbles Ben had already completed._

_"It just comes easy I guess. I like math. Algebra, trigonometry, and calculus, of course. You always need a little bit of calculus."_

_"Nerd alert."_

_"Beep-beep," Stan said._

_"Whuh-what?" Bill looked over._

_Stan sighed. "Richie and I have been in inpatient together before. Try not to mind him too much. If he's ever out of line, just give him a beep."_

_"Oh," said Ben. He smiled. He could already tell Richie was a piece of work, but he felt an almost comradery. If Ben was misunderstood for talking too little, Richie was surely the opposite, but Ben and Stan were kind to them both. "Well like I was saying, I just like math. I go to school for architecture."_

_"Thuh-that's awesome, where do you g-g-go to school?"_

_"UCLA."_

_"Holy hell! Nerd alert indeed!" Richie was beaming. "I applied last year and was waitlisted. That was before all my acceptances were rescinded of course."_

_"How the hell did that happen?" Stan asked._

_"I dropped out of school a few weeks before graduation. It was a laugh! I was valedictorian and everything." Richie's face fell for only half a second before the mask came back. "But no worries. I'm going to take the GED test as soon as I get better." His smile softened with what could only be an edge of hope. It was a good look on Richie._

_The room hummed to a quiet as the TV played something in the background and they all went back to passing the time. After a few minutes, Ben gathered the courage to ask something._

_"What do you guys know about Beverly?" he said._

_Bill and Stan smiled to each other. Richie was less subtle._

_"You want to fuck her, don't you?"_

_"Buh-beep-fucking-beep, Ruh-Richie," Bill beat them all to it, even with the stutter._

_"I just like her. Like a friend." And that was the truth, wasn't it? Or had he been lonely so long that he couldn't be sure what his feelings for Beverly meant?_

_"Don't let Richie's idiocy get to you. I don't know all the much more than you, but she seems like a nice girl. It's okay to like nice people," Stan gave Ben an incredibly kind smile._

_"Do you guys… I don't know if this is a rude question."_

_"There are no rude questions!" Richie declared._

_"Yes, there are," Stan said._

_"Wuh-we won't judge you th-though, Ben. Even if it's ruh-r-rude we know y-you wouldn't m-mean it that way."_

_"Well I was just wondering if you guys knew why Beverly was here."_

_"She probably murdered someone, next," Richie said, his body absolutely quivering with strange energy. Ben wasn't sure if he was being serious._

_"Beep-beep, Richie," Stan shot him a glare and looked back to Ben, "nobody in here has ever murdered anyone. Richie thinks it's funny to kid about those kinds of things, but this isn't a criminal insane asylum and those kind of misconceptions are dangerous."_

_"Well she is on the psycho side," Richie said, wiggling his finger around his temple in some sort of pantomime._

_"What does that mean?" Ben asked._

_"It duh-doesn't m-m-mean anything," Bill snapped. "Sh-sh-shit. I'm juh-just saying it isn't a buh-big deal."_

_Richie rolled his eyes. "When it comes down to it," he said, "you can only be involuntarily hospitalized for two reasons: you're a danger to yourself, or you're a danger to others. That's how they pick sides. Speaking of which, why are you here? I mean Billy and Stan tried to off themselves and I said I threatened to so I'd make myself get better, but what about you?"_

_"I admitted myself. I… I tried to do something but it didn't work. I knew that if I didn't come here I'd try again until it worked. So I told my mom I wanted to check myself into the hospital for a few days."_

_"You lucky duck, that means you can leave whenever you want."_

_Ben didn't think he was all that lucky._

* * *

Ben stayed in his room the whole day his mom was at work. He broke out his old tub of Lego blocks and built a model of a big, slate gray skyscraper with mirrored panels. He imagined constructing that building in the real world for Beverly Marsh to design her fashion line from.

* * *

_"Hi, Mr. Hanscom. I'm Dr. Koontz, I will be your psychiatrist for your stay here in Derry Home Hospital. It's nice to meet you to." Ben didn't respond. "Let's start with this: would you prefer that I continue to call you Mr. Hanscom or would you prefer Benjamin?"_

_"Just Ben is fine."_

_"Well in that case, it's nice to meet you Ben." The room was silent for a few seconds before Koontz spoke again. "Tell me about yourself." Ben had learned a long time ago that sentences like that were just questions in disguise._

_"There's not much to say. I… I don't know."_

_"What about your childhood?" That was a harder one. It was a question, a_ proper _question, wasn't it? Or was it a regular sentence that just sounded like it was a question?_

_"I'm sorry," Ben finally settled on saying. "Do you want me to talk about my childhood, or do you mean that there's not much to say about my childhood?"_

_"I'd like for you to tell me about your childhood. Where are you from?"_

_"Well I'm originally from Maine. I was born in Portland, but my mom and I moved to Kentucky so she could find work when I was two. We moved around a lot after that too, mostly in the south. I went to high school in Burnt Corn, Alabama, so I guess that's home, but my mom moved back to Derry to be closer to her sister right after I graduated."_

_"Now you and your mom are close?" Another disguised sentence. Wasn't it just a fact? Did it need an answer? Ben sucked it up and asked._

_"Were you asking a question?"_

_"Yes, Ben. Do you have trouble distinguishing between questions and statements?" Ben gave a sheepish nod. "That's ok. From here on out I'll try to start all my questions with indicative words like 'what' and 'when' and 'are' and so forth."_

_"Thank you."_

_"Are you close with your mother?"_

_"I'm closer with her than anyone else, I guess. I've always had trouble making friends. My dad died when I was a baby."_

_Koontz didn't offer sympathy – Ben was starting to like him. It was becoming a clean conversation; utilitarian._

_"You said you have trouble making friends. Why do you think this is?"_

_"I don't know… I've actually been closer to the people in here and I've only just met them."_

_"Can you tell me more about that?"_

_"Well… I don't know. Shit, I know I've been saying that a lot. I've just never had therapy or anything like this. I mean hell, I never even talked to a guidance counsellor in high school."_

_"You're doing absolutely fine, Ben. I want to make this conversation as comfortable as possible for you. What are you studying in school?" The question took Ben off guard, although it wasn't unwelcome._

_"Architecture," he answered._

_"How long have you been interested in that?"_

_"Well, since I was a little kid, really. I've always liked building things. My mom worked a lot, but she always liked to buy me toys whenever she could. I liked building blocks the most, so she started buying me Lego blocks. You know they're called Lego blocks, not legos, right? It's actually a common misconception, but Lego is the brand name and they've actually officially come out and said that the Lego is both the singular and plural form. Anyway, I got really into Lego. We were poor, so my mom could never afford to buy me those cool sets for specific models, but she could always find big bags of donated ones at charity shops so I amassassed just this huge collection of Lego. I'd even spray paint the blocks so that the buildings I made with them looked better. And it was a good things she kept buying more because I just couldn't stand having to take them apart to build something new._

_"When I was in middle school, everyone else had stopped playing with toys like that, but I was still just as enthusiastic about them as I always had been. So I found this flier for a competition and I built this huge replica of Fallingwater that I fixed with some mechanics from an old clock so that water would actually flow through the model. I won the competition even though it was mostly adult enthusiasts who entered. I think they gave me five hundred dollars – that was the first thing we were able to put in for a college fund for me." Ben was smiling by the time he finished talking._

_"That's amazing, Ben. But I have to ask, what is Fallingwater?"_

_"Well, like I said my mom and I were poor growing up, my dad was dead, and I was friendless. My mom was always trying to find ways to cheer me up, so she'd always take me to free and cheap things, like museums. When I was five, we lived in Pennsylvania for a little bit. I was a late bloomer of sorts and they wouldn't even let me into kindergarten because I couldn't speak. So one day after I threw this huge tantrum, my mom put me in the car and drove me down to Fallingwater._

_"To answer your question, Fallingwater is this beautiful home that was built by Frank Lloyd Wright from 1936 to 1939. The house was built over this natural waterfall called Bear Run – Wright was the first architect who thought it essential to incorporate the natural world with man made structures. The house itself is one of the greatest architectural triumphs in the world and the concept behind it was pivotal in the development of International Style. Fallingwater was really an intersection of a lot of things happening in the International Style of the 30's. Wright took a lot from the brutalists, from De Stijl, bauhaus, and the functionalists. Basically all these movements brought refined simplicity and utilitarianism to architecture. These movements took away the needless frills of old building and brought in the notion of form fitting function." Ben was vaguely aware that he was shaking his hands back and forth. It was a common occurance – his body would often move in an almost electrical manner when he got excited. He didn't do it all that much anymore, the kids in school had always called him a spaz and now as an adult he was much better at controlling himself, but there were still moments where he got too far in his own world that he didn't even realize it was happening. He shook a little bit of energy out of his hand and then stilled it. He calmed himself down a bit before finishing talking._

_"Anyway, Fallingwater is a national landmark today so they offer tours and things. That's why my mom took me. When we got there, I could hear the waterfall and I got so excited, I remember it, even now. But when we got there, they told us that tickets were $26 each and that was more than my mom could afford. So I threw a tantrum and they kicked us out. My mom took me back to the car and let me sit in the front seat so I could curl up in a little ball and shut off my senses for a while. A few years later when we moved back to Pennsylvania, my mom saved up for a few weeks so she could surprise me for my birthday."_

_"That's a great story," Dr. Koontz said as Ben finally finished. Ben saw now that he'd taken nearly a full page of notes as Ben spoke._

_"What did you write?" Ben asked. "Were you really that interested in Fallingwater?" he laughed._

_"Well I've actually made a few observations from the things I've heard from you."_

_"Oh."_

_"Would you like to speak on what led you to being here?"_

_"You mean why I tried to kill myself." Ben was not asking a question._

_"Yes. We don't have to talk–"_

_"I want to." Ben took a breath. "For the past few months I've been feeling depressed. I've been depressed before, but this was different. It felt almost insurmountable. Sometimes I go through these periods where I get just so sad because I know how different I am. I don't think there's one person on Earth who thinks the same way as I do."_

_"Could you elaborate on what that means?"_

_"I… I actually put it into the note – my suicide note. I thought a long time about what to write in that and I finally decided it should be an explanation." And so Ben told Dr. Koontz about the 52-hertz whale. Koontz added it to the notes. The room was silent for a few long seconds._

_"Ben, I'm looking over my notes. With what you've said, particularly about missing childhood benchmarks and the social isolation you've experienced, coupled with the depth at which you discussed your passion for architecture – I'm wondering, have you ever been diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder?"_

_And then, for the first time in his life, Ben understood a lot of things about himself._

_"You…" Ben thought very carefully for a second. "You think I'm autistic."_

_It definitely wasn't a question._

_Dr. Koontz adjusted his glasses. "Yes, Ben. Taking everything into consideration, as a psychiatrist I would have diagnosed you with autism before you were five. I'm frankly shocked your mother never had you screened."_

* * *

Ben's mom came home early from work. She'd been doing such ever since Ben came home from the hospital. He felt guilty in some ways – money was still tight for them, even with the full-ride scholarship Ben had been granted by the American Institute of Architects. At the same time, he didn't know quite how to feel. In truth, he didn't know how to feel on a lot of things. It'd been almost a week since his diagnosis and his mother was the only person he'd told.

When Arlene had picked him up from the hospital, he'd been silent the entire ride home. Finally, when they pulled into the driveway, Ben turned to her and said, _"You know, I'm autistic."_ Arlene had said, _"Oh. Okay."_ They'd danced around the subject since.

"Hi sweetie," Arlene hugged Ben as soon as she put her purse down. "I was thinking we could drive down to Portland and have a nice big dinner tonight. How does that sound?"

"I don't want to, mom."

Arlene sighed. "I know you're all into this dieting business, but you're perfect the way you are, really. A growing boy needs to eat."

"I stopped growing a long time ago. And that's not why I don't want to go to Portland. I'm going back to visit Beverly at the hospital again tonight."

"Oh. Okay." There it was again. Things hadn't gone back to normal since Ben told her the revelation. The tension of unspoken words were too thick to ignore. So Ben decided to cut the tension, consequences be damned.

"You had to have known, mom. I didn't talk until I was five. Why did you never take me to a doctor?"

And then came the tears of twenty years of shot-in-the-dark parenting.

"I'm so sorry, Benny. I am. I really am. When… when your daddy died, I was only two weeks away from my due date. Even before that, we were struggling to make ends meet. I didn't know I was pregnant until three months in and I'd been smoking and drinking all the way up 'til then… And then you were born and you were just so _perfect._ I'd gone through so much and I was so scared that I'd done something wrong and that I'd lose you or that you'd come out deformed or something worse. So there I was, younger than you are now, with this perfect baby boy. You were the best thing that could ever happen to me, but I was so _young._ I didn't know how to care for a normal child, so when you didn't start talking… I knew how they'd look at me if I brought you to a doctor, even if I could afford insurance for you. I knew they'd blame me and that they'd know everything I did wrong and that it'd all be my fault. I guess I didn't want to admit that something was off… And you were fine! You didn't talk, but it was okay. So maybe I didn't want to get you diagnosed. You know how retarded children are bullied."

Ben had never felt so angry at his mother in his entire life. He swallowed it. "Don't say it like that. Please. And I was bullied plenty. I never had any friends all the other kids me a fatass or a retard. So please don't call me that. I thought there was something wrong with me my whole life."

"And you don't think it was hard on me? Yes, I suspected it. Fine. Can you imagine what that was like to know you have a special needs child and not be able to get help?"

And so, just like so many times before, just like Fallingwater, Ben brought his knees to his chest, closed his eyes, tucked his face into his legs, and let himself rock. Only this time it was different. This time, for the first time, Ben didn't feel like he was a child or that he was broken or that he was floating on some wavelength far from anyone who could possibly hear him. There was a word for him now.

"Benny! Don't do that. If you're upset you use your words, honey. Use your _words."_

All the muscles in his neck tensed. He removed his head from his protective shell.

"I wouldn't have done it if I'd know," he whispered to the floor. He'd spent twenty-years teaching himself to make eye contact, but now he wasn't so sure he even wanted to.

"Ben… what are you saying?" Arlene's voice was thin in her throat; scared. And so he made eye contact anyway.

"I'm saying that all I needed was a word. Just a _word_ to tell me that I wasn't broken or lost or deformed – something to tell me that I was wrong. I walked in front of a fucking truck because I was so depressed that I thought I was doomed to a life of misunderstanding." He stood up. "I'm going to my room and I'm not coming out until I leave to see Beverly."

* * *

_"Welcome to morning group. Today we're going to try a writing exercise."_

_Beverly rolled her eyes to Ben. He felt he should roll his back and maybe laugh too, but in truth, he was excited. Across the room, Bill and Stan seemed excited too. It was day two of his stay, and for the first time in his life, Ben could confidently say that he had made friends. Even after the revelation from Dr. Koontz, Ben allowed himself to truly be himself. He was experimenting with letting himself take breaks from eye contact and withdrawing into himself when he needed to. To his surprised delight, nobody – not even the fizzy new arrival, Richie – say anything. In fact, he found himself relating to others_ better _now that he was no longer hyper analyzing every little thing he said. He wasn't going to tell anyone he was autistic anytime soon, for now he was content with how he was._

_"We're actually going to do poetry," the social worker continued. "Has anybody heard of haiku?"_

_"A haiku is a Japanese poem!" Vic said. It shocked the whole room. Beverly smiled; Ben smiled. "Did I get it right?" Henry glared at him and Vic shrunk back into himself._

_"Very good!" said the social worker. "To elaborate, in English a haiku is typically a three line, unrhyming poem where the first line has five syllables, the second has seven, and the third has five again – although these rules can be bent. Haikus, according to Japanese tradition, typically represent a contrast between two conflicting ideas. Nature is a common thing, but you can explore anything you want." The social worker distributed half-pencils and slips of paper. She played calming music on her iPhone and told them to write poems to share. Soon enough, she was helping Victor count syllables in the corner._

_"What am I supposed to write about?" Beverly whispered. Ben shrugged. "Can I use your back to write on?" Ben smiled and nodded. He hunched over a let her place her slip of paper between his shoulders. Ben figured that she could write the worst thing ever recorded and it would still be poetry just by the way it felt as she wrote. Ben wrote his own poem as she wrote hers, but when it came time to share, he slipped his in his pocket along with the pencil._

_At the end of their allotted writing time, Richie was the first to share. He stood up, smiled ear to ear, adjusted his glasses and spoke:_

_"Everywhere I look,_

_Shit and piss and motherfuckers –_

_At least Bill's hot."_

_It was a good poem._

* * *

"Ben!" Beverly cried as soon as a tech escorted her to the visitation room. He hugged her tight. And then her body went stiff. And just like that, their Thing was gone. Ben pulled away and found that her eyes were knit in confusion and a lone tear was running down her cheek.

"Bev?" Ben gave a nervous look to the tech.

"I… I'm fine," Bev wiped the tear away and put on a smile. Ben spent a bit of time trying to decide if she really was fine. For the first time, he wondered if maybe Beverly liked him so much because he never seemed to catch onto her cues of distress. That thought scared him green.

"Bev… you know you can tell me if you're not fine."

"I am. I promise." She laughed, but it was different now.

Ben looked around. Stan was meeting with his parents again and Richie had a guest – but no one was looking at them, not even the tech. Ben felt like they were all missing something big – Beverly included. He let it go.

"How was the rest of your day?" he asked.

"It was actually pretty good. Mike was called out of afternoon group and they discharged him, just like that."

"Are you sure? Did he tell you they were going to do that?"

"You know how reserved he can be, but I don't think he even knew he was leaving today. He looked so caught off guard. All the sudden they were giving him his discharge forms and surveys and all of that shit and we were all hugging and I was crying and then he was gone." Ben was happy for Mike, he really was. They'd never been able to get too close, but he knew that Mike had been one of Beverly's closests friends in the unit. He felt a knot in his stomach when he realized he was jealous of Mike. Ben was now acutely aware that he was in love with Beverly Marsh – no ifs or buts about it. He'd had crushes before, but this was something altogether different – profound. He didn't know if he could take it if Beverly like Mike and not him. An underlying fear took him. Mike was _normal._ Sure he'd been in the B Ward and nobody ever knew why, but he was normal and everyone knew it. Mike Hanlon was the one sane man of the seventh floor – why _wouldn't_ Beverly want to be with him? Mike was attractive. Mike was slim. Mike was funny and sociable and never missed a cue and always knew when it was time to smile and when a joke was serious. There it was. A thought. _You're autistic. Beverly won't want you because you're autistic. You're on a different wavelength. Forget about your Thing. Things are fleeting. What if… what if this was all fake? What if she was just being kind? What if she pitied–_

"Do you like Mike?" Ben asked before he could stop himself. Beverly was caught off guard.

"Yeah. Of course I like Mike. I like all of you guys. Why?" Something seemed to click. "Do you think I _like_ like him?" Beverly giggled. Ben felt his heart plummet to the pit of his stomach. This was the moment she was going to put an end to everything Ben had hoped there was between them. Wasn't it? "I don't a have a crush on Mike."

"Oh. Ok–"

"I have a crush on _you."_ Beverly broke out into a grin. "I mean I thought that was obvious. I like you more than I've liked any other guy before. I mean I know it's kind of dumb because we just met, but I like you a lot." She laughed again and he did too. The Thing was back and stronger than ever. "I finally read the poem."

The poem. Ben had assumed she'd forgotten or hadn't liked it but had been too polite to say anything. On the day he was discharged, Ben had written them all little notes, but for Beverly, he took out that little haiku he'd been inspired to write as she wrote hers between his shoulder blades.

Beverly pulled it out of her pocket and read:

"Your hair is winter fire

January embers

My heart burns there too."

It was the truest thing Ben had ever written, and by God, it _was_ poetry. _Beverly Marsh. Beverly Marsh. Beverly Marsh._

"I need to tell you something, Bev," he whispered as she tucked away the poem.

She took his hands in hers. They were almost twice as large as hers, but just as soft. She held them tight.

"What is it?" she whispered in a tone that matched his perfectly.

"I… I'm autistic."

"Ben, I know." She giggled; he giggled. He didn't even know why. "I knew you were on the spectrum the first night we met."

"How?"

"My aunt has Asperger's."

"The one who forgot about you?" Ben asked glumly.

"I finally got her on the phone today. She didn't forget about me. Something happened with my dad, but when I really do get out of here, I'm still moving in with her. Her being autistic doesn't have to do with any of it. You being autistic doesn't have anything do with any of the way I feel towards you either. It's not a problem, Ben. I told you yesterday, I've never felt so understood by anyone as much as you understand me. I don't care if our brains work a little differently or if the work a lot differently or _whatever_ – your brain gets mine and mine gets yours. I'm crazy about you, Ben Hanscom."

And oh! The sensation of her hands against his was sublime; the feeling of her writing poetry on his back was sublime. It was all perfectly sublime. They both smiled; they both laughed. United. After all, it was just their thing.

* * *

Ben hugged his mom when he came home. They didn't talk much, but then again so much of their relationship was built on silent understanding. He was still mad at her – he was mad at the world too.

She looked up with tears in her eyes as she hoped for magnanimity. _I love you,_ she whispered.

And so, Ben Hanscom told his mother the truth: he loved her too, even if she couldn't hear him sing. So no, he could never bridge that gap, but he had learned that the first step to being understood by others is understanding oneself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: contents of a suicide note, suicidal feelings, minor slurs
> 
> Oh, and by the way, happy autism acceptance month <3


	10. Act Three, Scene Two: Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike Hanlon is the only sane man.

# Act Three, Scene Two: Cry

_Ooo-waaaa ooo-waaa oooooooooo_

 

For the first time, Henry Bowers woke up before Mike Hanlon.

"Mike!" his whisper came rough and harsh. Almost sharp. Mike woke right away. Henry was standing a millimeter from the dividing line.

_Breathe. It's okay. He's not going to do anything; he won't even try. If he does, the lights will go off. Breathe, Mikey, breathe._

"Uh, Henry, what's up?" And wasn't that the strangest sentence ever uttered? Mike sat up in bed and flipped his lightswitch on.

"Mike, you… have you seen any bugs around here?" _Thank fucking Christ. He's a goddamned kid. Sure he's the demented little spawn of Butch Bowers, but hell if I had a daddy like that, who knows what kind of person I'd be. Play nice. You'll be out soon._

"Oh, I haven't seen any, but I wouldn't be too shocked if there were some. It's a pretty clean building, but you never know. Bugs always seem to get in."

"Yeah," Henry agreed. "Yeah, they do."

Mike went to the bathroom to change and gave an extra few minutes. Henry deserved the privacy.

 

* * *

_If your sweeeeeeeetheart sends a letterrrrr of gooodbyeeeeee_

 

"Mike, you need to take your meds." The nurse brought him a paper cup. _The_ paper cup. It'd been two days since they'd decided that he ought to take some pills. They of course being Dr. Reuter. The B Ward psychiatrist was an old white man who perpetually reeked of mayonnaise and apathy. It was only Prozac – a far cry from what was given to the other patients, but still.

"I'm not taking that. I know my rights and you can't make me take medication unless I'm in an erratic fit that shows danger to myself or others. I know my rights," Mike repeated as though it would make a difference.

The nurse sighed. "Mike, when you got here, you signed a form saying that you would be complicit with the medication prescribed–"

"I had to sign that form. They wouldn't admit me otherwise."

"Well you didn't have to be admitted. If you don't want to take medication, you don't have to be in this facility."

"Oh great. Thanks, I'll go pack my bags." _Ok this is where you lose it. This is where you scream. This is the straw that breaks the camel's back. This–_

"You can't leave until the psychiatrist signs off on your discharge." _Ok. For Christ's sake. Lose your shit. At this point you'd be crazy if you didn't. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy._ "If you take your medicine, Dr. Reuter would be more inclined to sign off."

"Yep." _Don't. Don't scream. Remember what daddy said. What did he say? Choose your battles? Pick where to take a stand?_ Don't _take a stand? Anything you say can and will be used against you. So stay quiet. What did Perry say? Let them think you're crazy. Just fucking let them, it doesn't matter because you'll be out so quick. That was days ago. Weeks? No, surely just days. Keep it together. Save it for Perry. Do it for the fucking lawsuit_.

The nurse lowered her voice. "Put the damn pill in your mouth. It's an antidepressant, it won't hurt you, okay? I don't care if you swallow it or not, if the rest of the patients in this ward see you refuse meds, this place will go to hell." And that was the sanest thing Mike had heard all morning. He put the pill in his mouth and spit it in his hand when the nurse turned away.

Patrick saw. He winked at Mike and spit his own pills into the paper bag trash can. _Fuck._

 

* * *

_It's no secreeeet you'll beterrrr if you cryyyyyyyy_

Beverly sat next to Mike at breakfast. She rested her head on her shoulder. It was a small thing, an intimacy that had developed between them through the hostility of B Ward. They'd needed each other. Henry shot them a glare. A big glare. A bad glare. An   _I fucking dare you_ glare. Any receding hatred that had been present in their morning conversation had evaporated. Mike shifted away from Bev. She pulled him closer. He nudged her off.

"Are you okay? Mike?" She looked at him with wide-eyed innocence.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." Patrick whispered something in Henry's ear and suddenly the attention was gone. "You can put your head back now, if you want."

Beverly cocked her head to the side and looked at Mike. Then she looked at Henry. Then Mike again. Henry. Mike, She knit her eyebrows. "You don't think…"

"I just don't want to provoke him."

"God. I didn't even think about that."

"Bev, everytime you touch me he glares at me so hard it's a wonder I haven't burst into flames. This is Henry Bowers we're talking about."

"I just… I don't know. How did I not pick up on that?"

"Black men lead very different lives than white women. I'm used to it."

Bev frowned but didn't say anything. Eventually Mike joined in on a conversation between Stan and Richie and that was that.

 

* * *

_When waking from a bad dreammm_

 

"Hey, Mike," someone tapped on his back. Mike didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

"Hey, Vic." Mike smiled. Truth be told, he was starting to like Victor. Or maybe that was just the impending insanity talking. Whatever it was, at least no one had called him a racial epithet in nearing twenty-four hours.

The powershift only became apparent to Mike after Beverly was transferred. Somehow, Patrick Hockstetter had slithered his way into top dog position. And what a reign it was. Things were calmer now. Almost too calm. Strange. Henry's anger had ebbed, but that could have been the pills. The anger had morphed into… fear? But no, Mike Hanlon was not ready to pity Henry Bowers. No way. Patrick though… he was sly. He didn't need to threaten to beat the ever-living shit out of you. Not him. All he had to do was smile your way.

_It doesn't matter. It doesn't. You'll be out of here in no time. None at all. You're going home. You'll be with your grandad. You'll go back to work. Everything will be normal. Well as normal as it can be when you're recovering from nearly being shot in the fucking face as your lawn catches on fire because the goddamn town racist somehow became a cop– Breathe. Not going crazy. Not snapping._

"Wanna play Madden?"

"Sure Vic. Sure."

 

* * *

_Don't you sometimesss think it's reaaaaaaal?_

 

"Mike?"

"Listen, Perry. I've got to get out of here. Today. I don't care how hard it is. I don't care that the fucking psychiatrist wouldn't sign my discharge the past two days because it was the goddamned weekend. I've got to get out of here. I'm starting to fucking lose it." _Starting to? Pretty soon you'll be smearing shit on the walls. You've seen movies._

"Mike, calm down–"

"Don't tell me to calm down. Please. I've spent a week locked in a psych ward. I'm starting… I'm starting to get paranoid." _No you're not! Not you, Mike! Never you!_

"Mike. Calm down. It's okay. Listen to me. The outside world is still here. We're all still here. I'm at your house, in your kitchen, with your grandfather and my wife. He's doing well. Now just as soon as we finish eating, I'm going to leave Leroy with my wife and I'm going to drive to Derry Home Hospital and I'm not going to leave until they discharge you to me, okay? You're getting out today, come hell or high water. We'll add the delayed discharge to the list of injustices, but for now we've got to focus on the big one. Bowers is in remand. He's not coming out anytime soon. You're not going crazy. As soon as we get you out, you can scream your head off in my car if you have to, but for now you have to keep it in. This is crunch time, Mike. You're voluntary now–"

"Well it turns out voluntary doesn't mean shit because they still make you go through a psych eval before discharge." _You'll fail. You're going to crack. You are._

"I know, Mike. I know. I called them yesterday. They promised me that they'd get you in with the psychiatrist just as soon as he comes into work. He'll take one look at you and sign you off. Don't give them any reason to hold you–"

"My psychiatrist is a piece of–"

"I know. I've read the rules and regulations for that place a million times. I don't know where they hired Dr. Reuter from, but it seems he's just a prescription pad with a brain. Play his game just for a little longer. I talked to the admin yesterday and he swore that Reuter'd sign the discharge today. Play the game just a little longer." _Yeah, Mike. Play the game._

"It's not that easy, man."

"I know."

"You really don't." Mike looked around and found that Patrick was still staring at him. At some point in the last eight hours, Mike's muscles had started to quiver uncontrollably. _It's 'cause you're crazy. You are going crazy. This place is making you crazy and they won't let you leave._ It had to be breakfast time now, right? And then he could see the rest of the losers and they'd remind him that he wasn't losing it and he'd be ok. And he'd be okay. And he'd be ok. Just have to play by the rules first.

* * *

_But it's onlllllly false emotions that you feeeeeeeeeeel_

 

Mike Hanlon was quickly learning that the harder you worked to convince someone that you aren't crazy, the crazier you appear to be. _Doesn't matter, Mikey. Doesn't matter at all. You're getting out of here. You are. Any minute now._

It hadn't been all that bad when he'd had Beverly, but the B Ward was getting hot.

Sticky.

And holy hell, Mike thought he might actually be going crazy. _Keep it in. Fuck, crack on the outside if you have to. But not in here; not inside. You have to get out. It's time to get out. It's time–_

* * *

_If your heartachhhhhhhes seem to haaaaaang around too loooooong_

 

"Michael Hamilton," Dr. Reuter said not looking up from his clipboard.

"It's actually Hanlon. Michael Hanlon. I go by Mike, remember?"

"Ok," Dr. Reuter said through slimy gray lips. Mike knew the type. He was Derry born, raised, and soon to be died. If he picked the man's memory, he'd surely find a map of the town's history. The Bradley Gang, the Black Spot, the child murders of '89  – hell, Mike wouldn't be shocked to hear that Reuter was already around when Claude Heroux went on his spree. Yessiree, Reuter was Old Derry. Complicit Derry. Racist Derry. Homophobic Derry. Sexist Derry. Straight up, hole-for-a-heart, eyes turned from the goblin men, Derry, Derry. Dr. Reuter's thick eyeballs had surely turned away from plenty in their decades rattling around in his skull. "So Mike, how was the Lexapro?"

"You know, it's funny, I don't seem to recall discussing that with you. I thought if you were going to prescribe me medication that it was my right to know about it before a pill was thrust upon me."

Dr. Reuter looked at Mike through his milky eyes. "Well-spoken, are we?" Reuter laughed. "Did you take it? I see you have a lot of anger. Lexapro will make you happier." _It wasn't even Lexapro, it was Prozac. It_ was _Prozac, wasn't it? Maybe it wasn't. Fuck, Lexapro for Michael Hamilton or Prozac for Mike Hanlon, it doesn't matter to anyone. You're not a person in here._

"Look, I'm leaving today anyway–"

Reuter laughed. "Ok, Mr. Hamilton. You're leaving and I'm sprouting wings and flying all around God's green earth." _What? Jesus fuck, what does that even mean?_

"I am. I just…" _shit_ . _fuck. shit. You're in here for good, don't ya know? No one leaves Juniper._ "I just need you to sign off on my discharge." Reuter cackled. It was the power, wasn't it? The power that got him off. Mike knew Richie called the A Ward psychiatrist Dr. Deadeyes, but maybe he didn't know just how lucky he was. On Beverly's first night, Reuter prescribed her an utter feast of medication and she'd been too exhausted to even put up a fight. Mike never figured out how many of the pills she actually took, but the point was clear: Dr. Reuter was old fingers and a prescription pad. Nothing more.

"Ok, Mr. Hamilton. I'll sign you a discharge. No use keeping you here anyway."

_Not so fast, Mikey! It's all a game!_

"Thank you, Dr. Reuter." Mike stood up to leave.

"Now hold on, sit back down. I'll sign off on your discharge but you've still got a session with me." _There it is!_ So far all their 'sessions ' had consisted of Dr. Reuter staring at Mike through listless, aged eyes and scribbling on his notepad.

Reuter shook a bony finger. _Play by the fucking rules._ Mike sat back down.

"Okay."

"Tell me about your parents, Mike." Dr. Reuter, old as time, knew about the murdered Hanlons. There was no way he didn't.

"They were good parents. My father was the greatest man I've ever met and my mother was the greatest woman I've ever met."

"That's nice. Where are they now?"

_Play by the rules._

"The churchyard. They died in 1988."

"How?"

"House fire."

"You'd testify to that in a court of law?"

"Yes."

"Hmph. Who raised you?"

"My grandfather."

"His name?"

"Leroy Hanlon."

"Not Hamilton?"

"No, Hanlon."

"How was living with him?"

"Hard."

"Did you have a grandmother?"

"She died before I was born."

"So just you and Leroy?"

"Yes."

"Is he a good man?"

"Yes."

"You still live with him, don't you?"

"You could say that, yes."

"He's dying, isn't he?"

"You could also say that." Mike shifted in his seat. He could get up and leave. Really he could. No. He couldn't. _Play by the fucking rules. A matter of minutes. Take them one at a fucking time. Get him to sign the damn paper and you can scream at the sky just as soon as you leave._  "Now I'm not sure what that has do with–"

"Do you dream about them?"

"What–"

"Do you dream about them burning?"

"Look–"

"What was it like to watch them die?"

"I'm leaving." Mike stood again.

"Oh. I was under the impression that you wanted me to sign off on your discharge." _The fucking rules._ "What was it like to watch your parents burn to death?"

"Bad, ok? It was bad."

"Why didn't you save them?"

"I–"

"Did you try?"

"This has nothing to do–"

"The paper Mike, remember the paper. You do want me to sign it, don't you?"

"What do you want me to say, huh?"

"You dream about them, I know you do. I bet it happens every night."

"Yes. Fine. Ok. Happy?" At some point tears had started to fall down Mike's cheeks. "I dream about them. I dream about them a lot."

"What are your dreams like?"

"Their hands… I… I see their _hands."_

"What do they look like?"

"Burnt. Black. Peeling. Charred. Sometimes I can even smell them. The hands are just clawing at the door and the house is on fire and my parents are trapped and it's just so _hot._ "

"On that night, did your parents scream?"

"Yes."

"What did they say?"

"I… I can't remember."

"Do they scream in your dreams?"

"Yes."

"What do they say there?"

"My name. For me to hurry. For me to let them out. That it hurts. That it _burns."_

"Huh."

"They wanted me to save them. I tried, I swear to God I tried." He was really crying now.

"Huh," Reuter repeated. He'd put his notepad away a while ago.

"You know what? Fuck you. This isn't fucking psychiatry, this is torture." _And you've sunk yourself. There's no getting out._

"Says the trauma victim who was ready to kill a man."

Mike rubbed his tears away with the heel of his hand. He bit his lip and narrowed his eyes. "You don't know a damned thing about me. You just want to watch me squirm."

Reuter laughed. "Well you make it easy, son!"

"Don't call me that."

"Ok, Hamilton."

"Hanlon."

Another laugh. "You sure are a feisty one."

"What's that supposed to–"

"I signed off on your discharge this morning." Reuter pushed his glasses up his nose and picked up the notepad. He tore the top sheet off and read from it, "Hostile disposition, past trauma, recurrent nightmares, feelings of misplaced guilt, classic PTSD – take this as token from the looney bin." He handed the sheet to Mike. "I've been at this job for decades, you know. You've seen the people they send in here. You can't blame me for wanting to have a bit of fun."

Mike crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash can as he left.

 

* * *

_And your blues keep getting bluer with each soooooong_

"Hey Vic?"

"Yeah?"

"How long have you been here?"

"I… I don't know. They said I've been here two weeks. I don't know though." A fleeting look of concern passed over Vic's features. "You… they're not going to take you first, are they? You aren't leaving without me, right? Mike you're not leaving me, right? Right, Mike?"

A crossroad: whether it is kinder to tell the truth or to humor. The former, at least for now.

"I'm leaving today, Vic."

Vic laughed.

"You sound like Henry." It was true, Henry Bowers didn't go one day without telling everyone who would listen that it was his last day in the ward. And then the fury when that didn't happen! Mike decided that taking a nap alone in his own bedroom was number one on the list of things to do after discharge. Keeping vigilant in his sleep was wearing on him.

"Well I wouldn't mess with you, Vic. I'm just waiting on a ride now."

"Sure, Mike." Vic laughed again. Suddenly it felt like the tides had turned. Vic had been in B Ward for far longer than Mike. He knew how these things worked, at least a little. They aren't letting you go. Reuter was messing with you. He just wanted to have fun. He said so himself. This is life for you now. Soon you'll be just like Vic with no idea how long it's been and no end in sight. It's all a fucking lie. No one is coming for you.

* * *

_Remember sunshine cane be found_

  
  
Two pairs of slacks. Sweatpants with the lace cut out. A handful of t-shirts. Mike packed his things. It wasn't much – everything else he'd brought into the hospital was locked in a closet. Still, packing was a celebratory event. He was getting out. He was. You aren't. And he was packing because it would be any minute now.

"They want me to bring you to group," Henry growled behind him. Mike jumped. You're losing your bearings. You didn't hear him at all. He could have snuck up on you. He did sneak up on you. Cool your shit. "You packing?" Henry laughed.

"What?" spat Mike. "You don't think I'm leaving either?"

"Nah, I'm sure they'll be letting you roam the streets like the trash you are in no time. This system is fucked up that way."

"Right. Well this morning on the phone–"

"You trust the phones?" Henry laughed. Mike turned around and saw that Henry was fiddling the waistband of his pants. The phones. What if– no. Henry's fucked up. He is. Don't catch the crazy.

Henry gave a quick glance to the corners of the room and the hall then flashed his shirt up, just a bit. A small stick was tucked into the trousers' elastic. Is that a toothbrush? Mike's eyes widened. Henry smiled. You're going to die in here.

"Relax. It isn't for you." Henry pulled the toothbrush out of his pants and ran his thumb over the sharpened end. "You know, you'd be all right for a nigger if you wasn't all up on the white chick." Mike eyed the empty hall. He could hear group therapy going on just a few dozen feet away. Doesn't matter. You're alone with him. You are. Just as soon as his wrist crosses over the threshold and the lights go off, you'll have a toothbrush in the throat.

"Look, man, Bev and I are just friends–"

"It doesn't matter. Like you said, you're getting out. Go create all the half-breeds you want, I don't give a fuck. I got my own shit to worry about. You know they say they're gonna move Patrick in here once you're gone."

"I think I heard something like that." Play cool. Play cool. Mike laughed nervously. "Bet you're real excited to get rid of me."

Henry just shrugged. His eye twitched. "Think Patrick's a fag?"

"What?"

"He gave me the toothbrush. I didn't even want it, he just gave it to me. He's trying to get up my ass."

"You need to get rid of it okay? Tell a tech that Patrick made and gave you a weapon. You're getting better, right? If they catch you with that it's game over, Henry."

"Right," Henry laughed. "You really are a dumb ape, aren't you? The first person who tattles about the toothbrush goes down, not whoever made it. The techs are in on it."

"In on what?"

"It."

"Henry–"

"Don't you get it? They give us mind control pills in here, you know that, right?" Prozac. Lexapro. "You might be getting to go home, but you don't escape Juniper. Because Juniper," Henry jabbed his temple, "is all in here. And that's how they get you. They could be listening now. They probably are."

"They?"

"The bugs, Mike. You know I thought I was actually going crazy, I was starting to trust these sons of bitches, but it's all lies."

"Henry–"

"You said it yourself. Bugs always seem to get in."

"Bugs? Henry I–" You can't take it back, Mike. You know you can't. Cockroaches, fruit flies, beetles don't mean shit.

"This whole goddamn joint is wiretapped, you're a fool to think otherwise."

Bugs.  

* * *

_Behind a cloudy skyyyyyy_

 

Perry hadn't come for him by lunchtime. _It's fine. He's busy. There's lots going on out there. He's probably just getting things together. But what if… He's the one always harping on about how much money that lawsuit is going to make. He wants the goddamned money, doesn't he? He'll just let you rot in here for years and years and years. Jesus fuck Henry was right. He's crazy as it gets, but he was right about one thing – you don't get to get out of here. You saw Dr. Reuter it's all a game to him. He was probably lying when he said he signed the discharge._

"Mike?" Bev nudged him, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"Don't worry, Bev, I'm just fine."

"I talked to Ben this morning." _Ben. God bless Ben Hanscom. Living proof that you can get out. Unless it was just a ploy, of course. Fuck. No. Don't let your mind go there. Henry's getting to you. This is a nice facility in a nice hospital intended to treat people in psychiatric emergencies. It's not a place for criminals and it's not a prison. Unless it is._

"Earth to Mike!" Richie laughed. "Zoning out on us?"

"Huh?"

"Beverly just gave us all a ten minute lecture on the beauty of Ben's eyes," Eddie joked. Beverly nudged him in the ribs.

"Seriously though," said Stan. "Are you okay? You look spacey." _The fucking shiv. You're not okay. Henry Bowers has a fucking weapon. What did he say? The first person who tattles goes down. It was just crazy talk, right? But what if it wasn't?_

Mike looked around. Henry and the other B Warders were on their way out. They'd be making him go back soon too. He'd barely touched his lunch, not that it mattered. Henry glared at him. Patrick laughed. A tech took them out of the dining room.

"Thank God," Bev whispered.

"I'm just glad Henry's finally laying low," said Richie. "You're lucky, Eds. Before you got here, you couldn't look at him without him going into a fit."

"God the first night I was here I was sure he was going to rampage."

"At least you guys didn't have to live with him," said Bev. "Hey Mike, remember when he flipped that table?"

"Oh. Yeah."

"Thank God he's calmed down," she continued. "You know if there's one person who can benefit from Dr. Reuter's obsession with prescriptions, it's him. I'm glad the medication is finally working for him."

"Right."

* * *

_So let your hair downnn_

  
Mike thought he might be dying. He needed to get out. He needed to see the sky. He needed to breathe. It was group therapy. Art therapy, to be exact, held in the dining room. It was optional. Only Mike, Bill, and Stan had bothered to show. Everyone else took downtime early, Mike would've too had his downtime not have been code for Henry time. The social worker leading group had handed them each a page of printer paper and a stub pencil and struck up a conversation with Stan. Bill was drawing birds. Mike was dying. Surely. Muscles shaking, breath heaving, no one noticing. Well, almost no one. Bill tapped him on the shoulder.

"Wuh-what's going on?" He knows. He knows you're losing it.

"What do you mean?"

"Luh-look," Bill whispered, "B Ward is t-tough. Are you ok?" Ok Mike. Here you are. If there's anyone you could say something to, it's Bill. It's got to be Bill.

"I… I think I'm going crazy."

"You aren't."

"I'm fucking paranoid, Bill. My mind is just going haywire with all the ways this place could be against me."

"Luh-look me in the eyes and listen to m-me." When Mike looked into Bill's eyes it was almost as though it were just the two of them. "I've b-been here long enough to l-learn a few things. Yuh-you're allowed to b-be paranoid. Keep it to yourself. You're g-getting out soon, right?"

"Today. At least I'm supposed to. The doctor said he signed my discharge and I packed my stuff up, but nothing else has happened."

"D-do you huh-have a ride?"

"Yes. He was supposed to be here this morning. Shit, why isn't he here?"

"Muh-Mike, it's b-barely past noon. Y-you're ok. After this is over, g-go up to the n-nurses' station in your w-ward and t-tell them you're leaving–"

"They won't believe me."

"They w-will. Have th-them check your discharge–"

"What if Reuter lied?"

"About the d-discharge?"

"Yeah."

"He w-wouldn't."

"How would you know?"

Bill looked around. Stan and the social worker were sitting together in the corner table, engrossed in a conversation. It was the closest to privacy that Bill could hope for.

"I w-was in B Ward when I f-first g-got here. It's a d-different game over there, ok? I d-don't know your st-story, b-but I can tell you shouldn't've been put there. Same with Bev. B Ward is for patients who d-don't have both their feet in the real world. Dr. Reuter might be apathetic, b-but he knows the d-difference between someone who's psychotic and someone w-who isn't. If he s-said he signed your discharge, then he d-did. I know it can seem like it in there, but this place isn't going to keep you prisoner. It was t-tough luck that y-you tried to g-get discharged on a w-weekend, but I'll b-be shocked if you're st-still here t-tomorrow. "

Mike wrung his hands. Tell him. Dammit you have to tell someone. Make it Bill. He's got all his marbles.

"Henry has a–"

The social worker came to their table. Mike shut up real quick. The first person who tattles goes down. Bill slipped Mike a piece of paper as a tech escorted them back to their respective wards. It read: YOU ARE SANE. Mike wasn't so sure.

* * *

_And go on and cryyyyyyyyy_

 

_Ok. You have to tell someone you do. They'll believe you. They will! But what if they don't? The nurses think you're crazy, the doctor thinks you're sub-human. If you tell they'll pin it on you. What if they already know? What if it's a test? What if they want to see what you do? No. No. No no no no. None of that. You are sane. You are sane. You are sane. Bill said so. But then again Bill's been here longer than anyone else. If they can keep him they can keep you. Fuck. Fuck!_

"Welcome to another session of afternoon group!" A mandatory session. The A Ward was full.  "Today we're going to be working on–" _it doesn't matter. You're leaving any minute now! You are! An hour max. Perry is coming. He is. He's a good man from a legitimate organization doing real work. He isn't after money. Something just held him up is all._

"Take a worksheet from the stack and hand them around." _This is it. This is the rest of your life. No it isn't. Yes it is. You're leaving any minute now; you're never leaving._ Mike's stomach muscles tensed, he felt his lunch crawl up his stomach. _You're going to throw up. You fucking are. You'll throw up and they'll say you're sick and that you have to say and you'll never see outside again. Hold it in. Hold it all in._ Mike fiddled with the slip of paper tucked in the elastic of his pants. _You are sane. You are. You are. Sane._

"Mike?" Richie prodded him. "You gonna pass the stack or not?" Mike swallowed and nodded. He took a paper from the top and handed the stack to Patrick. Patrick stroked his hand. Mike yanked it back as though it'd been burnt. _You've got to tell. Snitch, tattle, fuck it all. But it'd do no good. Get you holed up longer. You can't take the chance. Does it matter if they're going to keep you anyway?_ Patrick smiled. _This is it. One long torture. Forever and ever and ever and ever–_

"Mike," a tech carrying a big paper bag called for him. _The_ paper bag. The one they'd put all his stuff in when they'd admitted him. "Your ride's here."

And then Richie was hooting and clapping and Beverly was hugging him and Bill was clapping him on the back and Stan and Eddie were wishing him well and Victor was staring wide-eyed. _Just like that._ The tech escorted him back to B Ward.

"Now remember if you ever need continued care you can call this number," the nurse in charge of his discharge explained. _Doesn't matter._

"Sure."

"And here's your prescription for Zoloft." _Who gives a fuck?_

"Great."

"And we made you an appointment with a local therapist." _No skin off my back._

"Thanks."

"You look queasy, do you need to sit down? We can bring you some ice chips." _Nope._

"I'm fine."

"Well someone's being snappy today."

"Sorry, I'm just… I'm ready to go home."

"Right. No need to be rude. Just sign these forms." His signature was so damn shaky it was near illegible but it didn't matter. He was free. He was.

"Now make sure everything you brought with you is in here." Mike peeked into the paper bag. His phone! His wallet! His keys! Mike had never been materialistic, but goddamn did it feel good to have things. "Is that it?"

"Yeah, it's there." Mike signed another form. And another. And another.

"Alright, Mr. Hanlon." _Ha! You're a mister again! Welcome back to personhood._ "Go get your possessions from your room." Possessions!

Mike hustled back to the room he'd shared with Henry. _Good fucking riddance. Goodbye door that doesn't close! Goodbye paper-thin mattress! Goodbye perpetually piss-smelling bathroom! Goodbye–_ Henry's bed. The toothbrush. He could tell now, couldn't he? He had to do something, that much was obvious. _You're not free yet. They could tear up those papers. They could burn them._ A terrible image of one of his friends with a toothbrush jammed between their ribs shot through his mind. _No. Can't leave it. Can't report it, Ok. Options. There are always options. They don't do body searches. They only pat you down when you come in, right? Right. Do it, Mike. Hemming and hawing never served you well. Taking a stand didn't either. Fuck it._ In that moment, Mike wished that he'd never talked to the other losers. He was sure that if he hadn't, he could have walked out of the seventh floor with no qualms over keeping mum. But that wasn't true. He was a good person and he couldn't leave the loose cannon with a shank.

Mike looked out at the hall. The other B Warders were just coming back. He closed the door to his room just enough to obscure himself from their sight. He could reach Henry's mattress, couldn't he? If he moved just right– he could. He had to.

Mike planted his palm square on the edge of the line, the clunky tracker mocking him.

 _"Mike isn't really leaving, guys. He isn't. Right?"_ Mike heard Vic in the halls.

Mike stretched his other arm as far as he could reach. He barely brushed the frame of the bed before his muscles screamed for release.

 _"Why? You a nigger-lover now, Vic? You gonna be a left wing cuck?"_ It was Henry.

A panicked breath tore through Mike. He brought his arm back.

 _"No, Henry. Not me, Henry."_ Vic's voice was getting closer. Henry would be coming back to the room any second.

Mike swore under his breath. He took his bracletted hand and pushed his thumb into his palm.

_"You do what you want, bitch boy."_

He rucked the bracelet down his wrist.

_"You know what, Henry? You're an asshole."_

It got stuck halfway off his hand.

_"What'd you say to me, retard?"_

Mike bit his lip and pushed his thumb in further.

_"You heard me, you know I fought pieces of shit like you in Osan."_

His sinews cracked.

_"You want to shut the fuck up? No one believes you, you know that right?"_

The plastic of the bracelet slipped against his rapidly sweating palm.

_"I don't know what you're talking about."_

It was off. Mike released a desperate breath and dropped the bracelet on his side. He looked at the door once more. He could see Henry and Vic now, but they weren't looking. He could do it. He had to. In a second Mike was over the line. He snatched the toothbrush from under the mattress.

_"You know what, fuck this."_

Mike shoved the shiv in the elastic of his sweatpants next to Bill's note and was back to his side of the room just as Henry flung the door wide open. Mike could have cried. He'd done it. He could go home and he could _breathe._

"Shit, you really are leaving," Henry laughed and threw himself on his bed. "The already took off your tracker and everything." _Shit. Fuck._

"Oh, yeah. You know it," Mike chuckled, a bead of sweat working its way down his brow. The bracelet was still sitting on the ground where he'd dropped it. By some grace of God, Henry hadn't seen it yet. The sharpened end of the toothbrush pressed against Mike's thigh.

"I can finally get some fucking shut eye without you watching me, faggot coon." Faggot coon. Henry Bowers was no different from his daddy. Henry closed his eyes. Mike snatched the bracelet up and shimmied it back over his hand as Henry pulled his blanket up. "Good luck," Henry whispered as Mike grabbed his bag of clothes.

"Right." Mike sighed. He gave one more look the bed he'd slept in for a week. If the rumor was true, it was Patrick's now. _It doesn't matter. Henry's a piece of shit; Patrick's a piece of shit. It's a match made in heaven. At least now no one is going to be stabbing anyone._ "Good luck to you, too." And that was just about as amiable as it could get. But it didn't matter. None of it had ever mattered. He was on the home stretch now and he could already see the rest of his life so clearly and the past week was just that. A week. A blip. He was free.

He walked out into the hall with his bag in his arms and a smile on his face. The rest of his stuff was on the counter of the nurses station. The toothbrush was safe. He'd _done it_. He'd stayed sane. Vic ran up to him.

"I'll see you later, right Mike? We can play Madden after dinner." Sometimes victory hurt.

"Yeah, Vic. After dinner."

And then Vic hugged him. Mike thought he might cry. Vic just laughed and ran off to his own room. Mike was home free, or at least he thought he was. The nurses were finishing their paperwork and Mr. Perry was waiting for him on the other side. Someone tapped him on the back.

A chill went down Mike's spine as he turned to face Patrick Hockstetter.

"It was fun watching you today," Patrick said.

"Look, I'm on my way out. I'm not trying to start–"

"I know what you did." _He's bluffing. He has to be. Please God, please make him be bluffing._ "The toothbrush," Patrick whispered. A tech passed by them oblivious. Patrick laughed. "You're smuggling it out of here, aren't you?" Patrick lifted Mike's shirt just an inch and tutted at him. He stroked a finger over Mike's hip bone.

"I–"

"Don't worry, I'm not a snitch. In fact," Patrick gave a cursory look around and reached into the waistband of his own pants and took out another toothbrush. He tucked it next to the first in Mike's pants. Mike stopped breathing as the sharp plastic dragged across his skin. Patrick took Bill's note and tore it in half. He smiled wide enough for Mike to see bits of plastic stuck between his teeth. The thought of Patrick scraping a toothbrush with his incisors until it was sharp enough to stab someone with made Mike's skin crawl. "Take another for a road. I've got plenty. Besides, they're fun to make." Patrick shoved the ripped remains of the note in Mike's palm and walked away.

 

* * *

 

"Jesus fucking Christ am I glad to be home." Mike held his grandfather tight in his arms.

"Language!"

He was home. Real home. There was an empty space where his daddy's rifle had once hung, but everything else was still there. Perry and his wife were back home in Bangor. There was still the lawsuit, of course – Hanlon vs. The City of Derry. A big one. 

"You know who I am?" Mike asked as he fixed his grandfather dinner; as he fixed _himself_ dinner. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. Lamb chops. Fresh. The smell of cooking was the smell of freedom. Tomorrow would come and he'd have to turn his attentions to the lawsuit; he'd report Patrick too. He would. Distance helped. They couldn't touch him now, not anymore.

"Of course I know who you are. Couldn't very well forget my only grandchild." Leroy looked up from his dinner plate at Mike. His eyes were clear. It was a good night. Somehow, that is what broke Mike Hanlon. The tears poured hot down his cheeks. "Oh come on, Mikey. I've told you a million times before, you've got to toughen up." Mike only cried harder.

"I know, Grandpa. I know." He smiled through the tears.

"Now the Hanlons are tough stock, you hear?"

"I hear."

"Good. You're a good kid, Mike. Your father would be proud."

Mike hugged his grandfather again. Tough stock, indeed. Leroy hugged back.

_(Go on and cryyyyyy)_

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: racism, mention of hate crimes, improper mental health care


	11. Act Three, Scene Three: Damps and Dews of Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill Denbrough is feelin' fine.

 

#  Act Three, Scene Three: Damps and Dews of Night

_ "Do you want to hold him?" _

da-da-da-da-da da-da-da dum da-da-da dum

_ "Wuh-what if I drop him?" _

"How are you feeling today?"

"I'm guh-good. Thank you. How are y-you?"

"I'm fine. Has anything happened since our session on Friday?"

"Oh you know, it's always b-b-boring around here."

It was almost a normal conversation. Bill took his seat in the corner of Koontz's office. It was a familiar thing now. Bill should be used to it. He  _ was  _ used to it. So why were his hands shaking? 

"Is that it?"

"Is b-b-boring not enough?"

"I heard you got a roommate Saturday night.  Are you and Stan getting along?"

_ Stan stared at his hospital bed like Michelangelo must've stared at the hunk of marble that birthed David. And then he went to work. The bottom sheet stretched tight into the rubber mattress until the white fabric strained; the top sheet was more of the same. Forbidden pencil hidden in the cinching at the corners. Pillow taken out of its cover and fluffed with three even pats in the center. Cover replaced and pillow perfectly centered. Stray hairs meticulously picked off all the linens and thrown into the trash bag. Blanket folded in half and edges carefully tucked under the mattress. Hospital corners, of course.  _

_ "Do you d-do that every m-morning?" Bill asked.  _

_ "Yes. It's a good habit to have."  _

_ Bill looked at his own bed. The top sheet and blanket were disregarded in a hopeless tangle at the bottom the mattress and he was pretty sure his pillow had fallen under the bed some time in the night because it was nowhere to be seen. In all his time in the ward, Bill had managed not to make his bed once.  _

_ "I g-g-guess I should p-p-probably make mine too, then," he said with a chuckle. _

_ "Don't feel like you have to," Stan said genuinely enough, but Bill didn't fail to notice him avoid eye contact with the totality of Bill's side of their room.  _

_ "No it's okay. You know, I can't r-remember the last time I made a b-b-bed," Bill laughed. "It'll be g-good for me." _

_ "I don't want you to feel obligated just because I made mine," Stan said as he got to fixing the rest of his things. "You know, I've always been like this. My mom used to joke that I was the only kid on Earth who made their bed without being asked. I straightened things in the rest of the house too. It amused all the adults who came to visit. I'd be running around fixing all the things they put out of place and they all thought it was so damn _ cute."  _ Stan stopped and breathed in a heavy breath. He turned away from the small stack of books he was fiddling with and looked at Bill. "What about you?" _

_ "That I think you're c-cute?"  _

_ Stan blushed and diverted his eyes. "No I meant when you were a kid, did your parents make you keep your things tidy?" _

_ "Oh, I d-d-d-d-d-d-d–" Bill sputtered against the word.  _ Don't,  _ he meant to say. He didn't know. He stared at Stan, who had completely stopped his straightening now to look at him with a worried expression. Bill found that he truly could not remember whether his parents had made him keep his things tidy or not. They had. They hadn't. They had they– "d-d-d-d–" the stutter kept on tinkering about.  _

_ "Bill, are you okay?" _

_ "Y-y-yeah. I'm f-f-f-fine." _

"Well? Are you?"

"Am I wuh-what?"

"We were talking about Stan," Koontz looked to his notepad on his desk, though he'd stopped taking notes on Bill a while back. 

"S-s-sorry. I suh-sort of floated off." Bill gripped his trembling fingers tight into the arms of the lounge chair. "What w-w-was the question?"

"Are you getting along?"

"Oh. Yuh-yeah."

"I thought you might. You know, I think this could turn out to be very good for you. I think you have compatible personalities."

"W-w-we do."

"I see you've changed your shirt."

"P-People change their shirts everyday. I think that's a th-thing," Bill tried to joke. 

"Not for you." Koontz didn't bite. "Does having a roommate help?"

"I thuh-think so."

"In what ways?"

_ Stan had been in the bathroom for a while now. Three tech check ins worth of a while. Bill didn't mind so much, he had no plans for showering, but damn did he have to pee. Still, if there was one great pro of rooming with Stan, it would have to be the fact that they'd finally stopped siccing a tech on Bill as he got ready. Stan was trusted enough among the staff and Bill could see why.  _

The typewriter looked at him with its shiny key eyes. The paper was so brilliantly white, just waiting to be marred with fat inky symbols. With letters. With words. Sentences. Paragraphs! Stories! Fear transfigured into words. Words that wouldn't come. The paper was so

_ Bill went through his things as he tried to ignore the pressure on his bladder. He had to change his shirt. It was time and he knew it. Soon, Stan would be coming out of the shower just as squeaky clean as he always did and Bill would still be _

empty. 

_ empty.  _

"Huh?"

"In what ways does having a roommate help you?"

"I d-don't know. It j-j-just does." Bill's feet were shaking now too.

"How did your check up go?"

"I'm sure they g-gave you my ch-ch-chart."

"They did, but you need to talk about it."

"I've m-m-made myself really sick, I g-guess. My BMI has d-d-dropped five points. I'm underweight. I'm d-deficient in n-n-nearly every n-n-nutrient. My blood p-p-pressure is low and d-d-drops even f-f-f-further when I s-s-stand up. My c-c-circulation is so p-poor that my extremities are several shades lighter than the rest of my sk-skin and l-l-lukewarm w-water burns m-my hands. And to b-b-be p-perfectly frank, I haven't taken a shit in weeks."

_ "Eat up, Big Bill!" Richie said, dropping half his bagel onto Bill's already full plate. Mike handed him a piece of toast and Eddie passed over his yogurt.  _

_ "W-w-w-what's this about?" Bill asked, though he already knew. He'd been up to his little game with food for weeks now, but this was the first time the patients around him got wise to it.  _

_ "You're really thin is all," Eddie said. "We don't want you to get sick." _

_ "Yeah, you're Mr. Bones over here and you've been sneaking us all extra food. We're on to ya!" Richie said with a laugh. _

_ "For real though," said Mike, "are you okay? You're not, I don't know, starving yourself, right?" _

_ Bill looked at Stan with pleading eyes and aired his flannel overshirt as though he could make it look like there was more fat underneath. _

_ "Bill's on Prozac, it can lower your appetite," Stan improvised. Bill gave him a grateful smile. "I was on Prozac for a few months once and I lost ten pounds. Bill has a small frame, it just looks like more on him." _

_ "Ugh, don't get me started on side effects and eating!" Richie said, shoving a piece of sausage in his mouth. "This fucking Lithium has me practically drooling over anything edible. You know people can gain like fifty pounds on this shit? Koontz is trying to fatten me up, I swear. And I feel no fucking different. I cried in the goddamn shower this morning like a fucking lunatic." _

_ "Mood stabilizers take a week or so for you to notice a difference," Stan said. "Just keep taking them. We're proud of you, Rich." _

_ "Oh, you lovely fools!" Richie said with a lopsided grin. "You know I love you all my darlings. Eddie Spaghetti, will you still love me when I'm a million pounds?" _

_ "Who says I love you now?" Eddie quipped. _

_ Richie gasped fell out of his seat. The tech rushed over. _

_ "Richard, are you alright?" _

_ Richie pulled himself up on shaky feet. _

_ "I'm going to get a nurse–" _

_ "No need, my friend," Richie said in a wilting tone. Eddie stared at him with bulging eyes, but Stan just glared. Richie stumbled and the tech braced him. "It's too late! My heart," he grabbed his chest, "'tis broken! My love hast slain me!" _

_ The tech scoffed and let go of Richie who now had a shit-eating grin on his face.  _

_ Bill's mind told him that it was the perfect opportunity to wrap a bit of his food in his napkin to throw away when no one was looking. He took a drink of his weight-gain shake instead. Stan, who seemed to have eyes rivalling Big Brother, tapped him and gave him a smile. _

"I expected as much," Koontz said. Bill bounced his knee up and down. 

"Audra v-v-v-visited yesterday."

"All the way from L.A.?"

"Y-yes. She came b-b-before visiting hours and they called me in to m-meet with her. I b-bet her agent made that happen. I can't imagine what it'd be like for one of the patients in here to s-s-spot her. You know I k-keep a low profile for m-my own interests, but it's really for hers too, I g-guess. Our agents have been working t-t-together. I'm apparently taking a break from L.A. to get back to my r-roots as an author. If the press s-s-somehow found out that I was in here, they'd t-t-tear Audra apart. P-p-people know my name, they have for a while n-n-now, but I'm really just that, a n-name. But Audra, p-people know her face. It wasn't until we got together that I even had to d-d-deal with paparazzi. I'm s-s-sure soon enough, Audra's people will quietly announce that we've b-broken up. We hadn't g-gone public with the engagement yet, I guess that's a good thing. But none of that m-matters, not really."

_ Beverly rested her head on Mike's shoulder and Henry wasn't the only one who noticed. Beverly looked incredibly peaceful; at ease; beautiful. It wasn't just her hair that reminded Bill of Audra. The soft slope of her nose, the brilliant shine of her blue eyes… it was a sad sort of comfort to Bill.  _

"Why did she come? Are you reconciling romantically?"

"No. I think she came to say g-g-goodbye. To really have an ending. It f-felt like an ending."

"And how does that make you feel?"

"I l-loved her."

_ But Beverly was not Audra.  _

"And now?"

_ Richie caught him staring.  _

"I... I d-d-don't know. I... I w-was sad; I  _ am _ sad, but I just d-don't know. Right now I can't be her p-partner, I know that. It's not f-f-fair for me to expect for her to wait and I guess it really wasn't just a matter of waiting anyway. I p-p-put her through a lot. I loved her, I really, truly did. And n-n-now it's over. I think it r-r-really was over the muh-m-m-m-m-moment– it was over the day three p-p-paramedics had to hold me down while a f-f-fourth stuck my thigh with a s-s-s-sedative just to g-g-get me in the ambulance."

"You stayed together for a long time, given the situation."

"I g-g-guess. But I loved her and she loved me... that d-d-day I wasn't me. I'm still not me."

"Then who are you?"

Bill laughed. "A man who c-cries when he takes a shower. A man who can't eat a m-m-meal. A man who contemplates suicide every waking hour and who dreams about it too. Anyway, how w-w-was your w-w-w-weekend?" Bill's whole damn body was shaking now. The harder he pressed to keep his muscles still, the harder they trembled.

_ "Good morning everyone," the social worker today, Amanda, said as she handed out worksheets. The title at the top was all too familiar,  _ _ YOUR DISTURBING THOUGHTS AND YOU. Bill groaned.  _

_ "You've got to be fucking kidding," Richie said. "Caroline had us do this fucking sheet on Friday, do we really have to do it again?" _

_ "I already made the copies. I'm not wasting printer ink." _

_ "No, of course not! Printer ink is definitely more valuable than our sanity, way to fucking–" Eddie tapped him on the shoulder.  _

_ "We all know you didn't even do your last time, so stop complaining," Stan said, immediately getting to work on his paper. Bill was sitting next to him and Bev was on his other side. _

_ "I can't believe they're making us doing this again," Beverly whispered to him. "I mean last time I actually tried." _

_ "I th-th-th-think that this is th-the twelfth t-t-time I've g-g-gotten this sh-sh-sheet now. At l-l-least I've alway g-got puh-plenty of disturbing thoughts," Bill laughed. The joke didn't land. Beverly stared at him and then looked away. Patrick locked eyes with her.  _

"Are we going to acknowledge that?"

"Acknowledge w-w-w-what?"

"The fact that your stutter seems to have migrated to the rest of your body. I've never seen you shake like that and I haven't changed your medication."

"I th-thought I w-was h-h-hiding it s-s-so w-well," Bill said with a laugh that didn't come out near as acerbic as he intended.

_ Bill had had the shivers all day. His nose was runny but stung so bad that Bill considered it a very difficult choice whether or not he should go for the Kleenex. His mother had propped him up in bed with three big pillow behind him keeping his back straight and sturdy. The power was out which meant no T.V., no radio, no nothing but the sound of his mother playing the piano. The  _ da-da-da-da-da da-da-da dum da-da-da dum da-da-da–  _ It'd been raining for a week now. It'd been fun when it'd started, Bill loved riding his bike through the rain and letting the big fat Derry raindrops just try and stop him. His mom said that was why he was sick. Bill hated the idea that loving something could make him sick.  _

_ George sat at the end of his bed looking at him with a concern that was all together too serious for a child.  _

_ "St-stop that," Bill said, "you look like an a-hole." _

_ "I'm no a-hole!" George exclaimed. His expression lightened and he smiled through his two missing front teeth. "You're the a-hole!" _

_ Bill ran his fingers over the finishing crease and held up a paper boat for George to see.  _

"You won't drop him," Sharon assured. 

"Hey, Bill," Zack said bending down to his son's height, "you know when your aunt Mary was born I was scared to hold her too." 

"Ruh-really?"

"Sure. Being a big brother is a big responsibility." Zack ruffled Bill's hair. "But I have a feeling that you're going to be great at it. George is going to look up to you all his life."

"Cuh-Can I call him Georgie? George is a grown-up name."

_ "Ok, Georgie–" _

_ "Don't call me that, it's a baby name." _

_ "Y-yeah, well y-you're a baby." _

_ "Am not!" _

_ "Am so!" _

"I've spent the last few months getting to know you. I don't get that privilege very often working here."

"D-do y-you miss private practice?"

"Sometimes. But I chose to work here for a reason. It's a hard job, but someone has to do it."

"Y-you l-like the ch-challenge, though. That's why y-you d-do it, ruh-right? Y-you're too sm-smart for regular boring clients who are rich enough and educated enough t-to h-have a r-r-regular psychiatrist. The d-demographics h-here are m-much more interesting."

"Really? And how did you reach that conclusion?"

"I've sp-spent the l-last few m-m-months g-getting to know you t-too."

"Well you're not wrong. We all have our reasons for why we do what we do."

"Y-you know, th-there's this great sh-short st-story where this psychiatrist–"

"We're not going to do this today."

"D-d-do what?"

"Bill, I'm not going to beat around the bush. You're too smart and as you've already let on, so am I. We've spent three months talking about your favorite short stories and novels and movies. I ask you if we're going to talk about George, you say no. I ask you how you're doing, you tell me the bare minimum. I make some conclusions about you and you politely pretend you aren't making conclusions about me too. I like you, Bill. I've read every word you've published and I've heard the way your fellow patients talk about you. On the outside, I have no doubt that we would be friends. But we are not on the outside and we are not friends. I am your psychiatrist and you are my patient. Bill, I want you to get better. I want you to be able to live a healthy, happy, well-adjusted life. You're a good man and you have so much talent to share with the world, but I've also worked in this profession long enough to know that me telling you your life is worth living is not going to cure you. Do you want to know what I think?"

"P-Please."

"I think that you already know that you're life is worth living but that doesn't make you want to end it any less."

"I want to d-d-die but I don't."

"The afflicted mind is full of paradoxes."

"I think m-my life is worth living–"

"–And yet you think you deserve to die. You're right, I do like a challenge."

da-da-da dum da-da-da–  _ The piano music stopped and Bill heard his mother's bench scrape against the wood floors all the way from downstairs. She walked up the creaking stairs and into his room. _

"I know why I'm sh-sh-shaking."

_ "Bill where's your brother?" _

"Really?"

_ "I suh-sent him out t-to play." _

"I m-m-made a d-d-decision today."

_ "Bill! It's storming out there! What were you thinking?" _

"What did you decide?"

_ "Oh c-c-come on m-mom. He'll b-b-be back s-soon. Besides, I t-told him he could only puh-play in front of the house. Thuh-that wuh-way I c-can check on h-him through the window whenever I h-have to." _

"W-w-w-w-w–" Bill tried before swallowing the unspoken word.  "I d-d-don't want to run into the other patient's s-s-sessions," he said instead.

_ Sharon went in front of the window.  _

"Bill, you're the last patient of the the day." Koontz knit his eyebrows. "Before we proceed with our session, I need to ask you a few questions."

_ "Bill, he isn't out there." _

"Sure."

_ "Wuh-what do you m-m-m-mean?" _

"What day is it today?"

_ "Your brother! I don't see him!" _

"Monday."

_ Bill got out of bed and joined his mother at the window. _

"Yes, but I need the date."

"It's day eighty-five," Bill laughed. Koontz was not amused.

_ "H-h-h-h-h-he was juh-just th-th-there, I swu-swear." _

"What time is it?"

_ Sharon ran out of Bill's room and Bill followed her down the stairs.  _

"You're the one with the w-w-watch."

_ "George!" she yelled from the porch.  _

"Who is the current president?"

_ Bill looked bleary-eyed through the rain. _

"Okay, Koontz. I haven't l-lost it, all right? I'm s-s-sorry I didn't realize I w-was y-you're last patient. Y-y-you d-don't have t-to ask the f-f-fucking psychosis questions."

"Who is the president?" Koontz pressed.

"D-D-Donald Trump. You kn-know what's f-f-funny about that question? If y-you told s-someone three y-years ago that he'd b-be president, you'd b-be the crazy one. Can we ditch the l-l-loony questions now?"

"You know I have to ask them. Now try again, what time is it?"

"They m-m-make it very inconvenient to look at the cl-clock around here."

"I'm aware of the problem and am working to get it fixed. Now, using your ample knowledge of how the scheduling works around here and taking into account which activities you've already done today, what time is it, Bill?"

Bill made to answer, but a harsh consonant got stuck pittering in his throat.

_ "Sure you can call him Georgie," Sharon said. "It can be your special name for him, how about that?" Bill smiled through his two missing front teeth. "Now here, why don't we sit on the couch and then I'll hand you your brother and you won't have to worry about dropping him." _

_ Bill sat down next to his mother and she carefully put George into his arms. He held the bundle and looked into his brother's eyes for the first time. _

_ "Hi, Juh-Georgie, I'm your b-big buh-brother. Dad says that's a b-big responsibility, b-but d-don't worry, I'm g-going to k-keep you safe." Bill held his brother tight against his chest and felt their hearts beat together. He kissed his brother's soft downy hair.  _

_ "Be careful with his soft spot," Sharon warned. _

_ "Wuh-what's that?" _

_ "Well, son," Zack explained, "when babies are born, their skulls aren't completely fused together so their heads can fit through their mother's… well you know…" Bill, at age six, most certainly did not know, but he nodded all the same. "You see, right now George has hole at the top of his skull and there isn't much between his skin and his brain so if you push too hard on the spot or drop him you could really hurt him." _

_ "I'll nuh-never hurt you, Juh-Georgie," Bill whispered to his brother. _

"What were you doing before I called you into this session? Be as detailed as you can."

Bill closed his eyes, took a deep breath before answering. "I w-w-w-was in the c-c-common room with Stan. We'd j-j-j-just come b-back from group therapy. Art therapy, ss-specifically. I talked to M-Mike. He said he th-thought that he was l-l-losing it and I assured him he w-w-wasn't," Bill laughed. "How's th-that for irony? Anyway, they usually d-do creative therapies right b-before afternoon group, so I'm g-g-going to say that it's three o'clock now."

"It's five forty five."

"Th-th-that c-c-can't b-b-be ruh-right. Y-you l-leave at fuh-four. If it's a quarter til s-six, th-that m-means v-visitation has already st-started."

"I had some very productive sessions with other patients today and a few ran over. You know how Mondays can get in here. I'm concerned at the dissociative symptoms you're exhibiting."

"Wuh-what c-c-can I say? I l-live in endless l-l-little eternities in this p-place."

Koontz sighed. "If you weren't a continuing suicide risk, I'd recommend intensive outpatient. In our last session, I told you that if you reached a dangerous weight, I'd move you to a specialized facility–"

"I've b-b-been eating. I've ch-changed m-my sh-shirt. I'll t-take a sh-shower t-t-tonight. D-D-Don't m-move me. Please."

Koontz sighed. "Alright Bill. Let me outline some premises here. You're showing marked improvements in eating and hygiene, you had a successful conversation with your ex-fiance, you've been shaking in your chair this whole session and you've told me you made a decision but you don't want to overrun your appointment. Now I've already made my conclusion. Can you tell me what it is?"

"I'm g-g-g-g-g-g-going t-t-to t-t-talk about him."

"What led you to decide this?"

"W-w-w-wow, Koontz. I th-thought y-y-you'd b-be j-j-j-jumping for j-joy when I told you th-that. D-Does it m-matter why?"

"Yes, very much so. Now, like I said, I ran overtime with some of your fellow patients and I want you to know that I'm willing to do that same with you. If I have to stay here all night, I'll do that. Something happened today, didn't it? Since your admission, you have yet to so much as say your brother's name to me. Now you say you're ready to talk. Since I've pressed you take care of yourself, you appear to be wanting to get better. Do you see your life outside of here or have you merely decided that the only way you have left to hurt yourself now is to start talking?"

_ "What are y-you w-working on?" Bill sat next to Eddie in the common room after lunch. Or breakfast. Or dinner. When was it again? Richie was watching T.V. and Stan was reading in his room.  _

_ "Someone from my school dropped off my schoolwork," Eddie said, looking up from his work. He had a copy of a book and a few stacks of notebook paper that was just as empty as the paper sitting at Bill's typewriter. "I'm supposed to write an essay on  _ Frankenstein. _ We read it in class, but honestly I have no idea what I'm doing." _

_ "D-d-do you w-want some help?" _

_ "You don't think that that would be an unfair advantage? I mean you're an author, right?"  _

_ "Eddie, you're d-d-doing huh-homework in a psych ward. I think you d-deserve any unfair advantage you can get r-right now." That made Eddie laugh. Bill smiled and sat down.  _

_ "Have you ever read  _ Frankenstein?"  _ Of course he'd read  _ Frankenstein,  _ hadn't he? What kind of horror author would he be if he hadn't? _

_ "Oh sure, cuh-c-college I think. Nuh-now what's the assignment?" _

_ "Well we all got assigned a chapter to analyze. I'm chapter seven." _

_ "Ok, it's b-b-been a while, you'll n-need to catch me up. What happens in chapter seven?" _

_ "Well Frankenstein gets a letter from his father in Geneva telling him that his brother was murdered. I'm trying to find literary devices in this passage." Eddie handed Bill the book and pointed out a section underlined in shaky pencil: _

_ William was not there. We returned again, with torches; for I could not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had lost himself, and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night. About five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming and active in health, stretched on the grass livid and motionless; the print of the murder's finger was on his neck. _

_ Bill read it carefully. Very carefully. Too carefully, really. He must've stared at paper five minutes before Eddie garnered the courage to say something. "So, uh, you see any devices?" _

_ "I d-d-d-d-didn't ruh-remember this part," Bill said. _

_ "Yeah it kind took me off guard when I read it. I always sort of thought of Frankenstein as just this really dumb monster made of sewn up bits." _

_ "Swaghetti! You're saying you've read the whole book and you still refer to the monster as Frankenstein?" Richie said, muting the television. _

_ "Oh shove it!" Eddie laughed. He took the book back from Bill and ran over to his sort-of-boyfriend. Richie pulled him into a hug and kissed his hair when he was sure the nurse on duty wasn't looking. _

_ "Ruh-Richie, c-c-c-can you not do that?" Bill heard himself say. _

_ "You have a problem, Bill?" Richie let go of Eddie and stared right at Bill. Eddie looked at him too, and Bill could swear he could see something horrible in his eyes – something scared. Bill turned away. _

_ "I just d-d-don't think that you're b-b-b-being appropriate, Ruh-Richie." _

_ "Excuse me?" Richie's entire body language shifted. He squared his shoulders and clenched his jaws.  _ "I'm _ the one being inappropriate?"  _

_ "What's that s-s-supposed–" _

_ Stan came out of his room and pulled Bill aside. Richie and Eddie went to their room together.  _

_ "Look, Bill, I'm on your side. They should be focusing on their recoveries, but we can't do anything about it, ok?" _

_ "Eddie's a fucking kid!" Bill whispered harshly. "Richie–" _

_ "–is a kid, too. Bill, are you okay?" _

_ "I'm f-f-fine." _

"I'm fine. N-n-nothing h-happened and I'm n-n-not t-trying to h-hurt m-m-myself." Koontz didn't look so convinced. "Y-you were right in our l-l-l-last s-session. I'm n-not g-going to g-get b-b-b-better unless I talk about it. I d-d-don't w-want y-you t-to m-m-m-m-move me out of Duh-Duh-Derry and I c-c-can tell you're c-c-close. I f-f-fascinate you, d-don't I? Three m-m-months ago I was s-s-sitting at b-breakfast w-with my fiance and th-then I s-s-snapped. Don't you w-w-want to know  _ why?  _ B-b-b-because I do."  Bill quivered in his chair. He held his arms tight against his body, but it was no use. His jaw chattered and the muscles in his neck ached from their strain against his convulsions. 

"It seems that your body disagrees with you. I know you keep insisting that the stutter is a purely physiological response to perceived brain damage from your accident when you were a kid, but you know as well as I do that that isn't."

"Y-y-y-y-y-y-ye-yes."

"The return of your childhood stutter and now the shaking – I believe that your body is subconsciously trying to protect you. And you know what? I think that your suicide attempt was meant to be self-protection too. Your mind is very paradoxical indeed."

"Y-y-yeah. I g-g-g-g-guess so."

"I have to say that I'm afraid of how you're going to react when we start talking. I don't want to send you back into a dissociative crisis."

"I'm fine."

"Ok. We'll talk, but I'm going to leave a note with the night nurses to keep an extra eye on you tonight. I'll also put in an order for Ativan for you. If you're feeling distressed, I want you to take it. Deal?"

"D-d-deal."

"Alright Bill, I'm going to ask you to close your eyes, release as much tension from your body as possible. Tell me when you're ready."

_ Beverly sat with Eddie and Richie at the next group therapy. Stan was in with Dr. Koontz which left the seat next to Bill open. Patrick took it. He was humming something familiar–  _

_ "Hey Denbrough." _

_ "I th-thought I t-t-told y-you not to c-c-call m-me that." _

_ "Oh, sorry, Billy. Why do you think Richie's looking at you like that?" _

_ Bill looked up and sure enough Richie was giving him the stink eye. It hadn't been that big of a deal, had it? _

_ Bill resolved to apologize later. _

_ "I d-d-don't know what you're talking about." _

_ "Sure, Billy." _

_ "C-c-c-could you not call m-m-me that either?" _

"Billy! Billy, I saw something!" George ran into his brother's room a few weeks before the storm. Bill had a friend over.

"Is this your brother?" the friend asked. Bill couldn't remember his name anymore. It didn't matter.

"Y-yeah."

"In the cellar, Billy! I saw someone!"

The friend rolled his eyes.

"Ignore h-h-him. He th-thinks a m-m-monster l-lives in our cellar. L-leave us alone, George."

_ "Did I do something to upset you?" _

_ Bill didn't say anything. _

"I'm r-ready."

"Ok, Bill. I'm going to ask you some questions and I want you to answer them as quickly and as honestly as you can. Don't think, just answer. I'm going to ask the very first question I asked you. Why are you here?"

"S-s-suicide attempt."

"Was this a premeditated attempt?"

"N-no."

"Where were you?"

"B-breakfast with my f-fiance."

"Describe it."

"K-K-K-Koontz I d-don't see h-h-h-h-how this–"

"Tell me everything you can remember about your meal. You're a writer, describe it. Start with the lights. What did they look like?"

"They w-were those cheap fl-fl-flickering bullshit lights they always s-s-seem to have in shitty d-diners. The floors were l-l-linoleum, of course. Audra thought it was f-f-funny though. B-B-Back home, all the places w-we go have b-b-big open windows and menus in Fuh-Fuh-French and succulents lining the tables. This p-p-place though, might has well been just another iHop on the f-f-freeway. It reminded me of a d-d-diner you might see in a Quentin Tarantino movie, y-y-you know? At the counter they h-h-had pies for sale, that sort of thing. Audra thought it was qu-quaint."

"Had you ever been to the restaurant before? Possibly as a child?"

"N-n-no. The restaurant wasn't there before I moved from c-c-college. I chose it specifically for that r-r-reason."

"Alright, what did you have to eat then?"

"I had t-t-toast and eggs. Audra ordered this b-b-big stack of pancakes and said that it was the last c-c-crap food she was going enjoy before the w-w-wedding because she'd already bought her dress and she was scared she wouldn't f-f-fit. She kept going on and on and on about how excited she was to meet my p-p-parents."

"Were you excited?"

"I w-wasn't anything."

"Do you like your parents?"

"No."

"Did you tell her this?"

"I d-d-didn't know it at the t-time."

"And your stutter had already returned?"

"S-s-sort of. I'd gotten caught on a few words, but nothing m-m-major, not like now." 

"Alright. Continue. What happened after you got your food?"

"Well w-w-we started eating, of course."

"And everything was normal?"

"Y-y-yes."

"What do you see?"

"Audra's face. Her h-h-h-hair was in her face. There m-m-must've been a draft."

"What do you taste?"

"Toast. B-Butter. Jam."

"What do you hear?"

"They w-were playing classical m-music to try and class it up, I gu-guess. I can't remember what s-song–"  _ da-da-da-da-da da-da-da dum da-da-da dum.  _ "It was  _ Für Elise _ ." Tears escaped Bill's closed eyes. "I– I–  I r-r-r-r-remembered. It w-wuh-wuh-was l-l-like a v-v-veil had l-l-lifted, all at once I r-r-r-remembered and I r-r-r-remembered and I r-r-r-remembered and I  _ didn't.  _ I d-d-didn't r-r-r-remember or I d-d-d-did. I-I-I– I  _ don't know.  _ It w-w-w-was like ss-s-ss-something inside of m-m-me b-b-b-broke and all of the ss-sudden– All of the– I'm th-t-there. I am. I'm right th-there and he's h-h-here t-t-t-too except he's not b-b-b-b-because I s-s-s-sent h-h-him out t-t-to p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p– I w-w-was only th-th-th-thirteen– I d-d-didn't know any b-b-b-better and m-m-my d-d-dad w-was at w-w-work and it w-w-was st-st-storming and the p-p-p-power w-w-was out and m-m-m-mom w-w-was in the p-p-parlor pl-pl-playing– sh-sh-she w-w-was pl-pl-playing  _ Für Elise–" _

"Bill, open your eyes. You're still here with me, Bill. We're sitting in the psychiatric counseling room on the seventh floor of Derry Home Hospital in Derry, Maine."

"I know. I know." Bill stared at his wrists, eyes hot with hate. "I  _ know."  _ Koontz handed Bill the box of tissues and averted his eyes to give Bill as much privacy as he could. This was how it had to happen. Bill had to be a man. Perhaps he'd always had to be a man, and perhaps that was the beginning of all his problems.

"I think that's enough for today, Bill. In this past session, we've made more progress than any of your other sessions combined. How do you feel?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I'm very proud of you. We still have a lot to work on, but I think we are finally headed in the right direction."

"It w-was the song, wasn't it? If Audra and I h-had j-just g-gone to another damn r-restaurant or the r-radio had been playing the t-top 40 or whatever, I'd b-be back h-home right now g-getting ready for a wedding."

"Well I definitely think the song was a psychological trigger for you, but it's a very popular piece and I'm sure you've heard it dozens of times between the night of your brother's disappearance and the restaurant. I think it was a culmination of a lot of things.  You've spent your entire adult life repressing your memory of losing your brother 

_ (whom the night before I had seen blooming and active in health)  _

and later discovering his body."

_ (stretched on the grass livid and motionless) _

"Do you think I'm g-going to start getting better now?"

"Do you want to get better?"

"Th-th-thank y-you f-f-for the extended s-s-s-session, D-Dr. K-K-K-Koontz."

_ It was thirty minutes after dinner had already started when Bill left his session, not that they were going to let him skip it, of course. A tech was waiting for him right outside of Koontz's office to escort him right to the dining room. On the walk down the hall Bill couldn't help but notice the sound of construction on the other side of the door to the room with the elevators. _

_ "Wh-what's that about?" _

_ "Well the hospital has decided we need a little security upgrade after Beverly had her great escape attempt. They're replacing the window tonight." _

_ "Oh," Bill chuckled. He'd have to tell Beverly about that, she'd be sure to get a kick out of it. He felt surprisingly ok. It was an oddity in and of itself, but perhaps there was some truth in the notion of diminishing your worries by sharing them.  _

_ The other A Warders had already finished their meals and had been brought back to the ward. Bill sat as the table that had so quickly become the losers' all by himself.  _

_ Patrick got up from his space next to Henry and sat with Bill. _

_ "Hey Billy – I mean Bill, sorry – what took you so long?" Patrick cocked his head to side and smiled. His snake-ishness had taken on and electric quality and now he reminded Bill of one of those old ventriloquist dummies with big glassy eyes and a permanent smile that was just uncanny enough to make you uncomfortable. There was something terribly off about him. Bill shifted in his seat.  _

_ "The d-d-doctor in our w-ward w-was running over time with some of his appointments," he explained, hoping that it would be enough for Patrick to lose interest and go back to his own table. The Bowers' Gang (if it could even still be called that, and Bill was not willing to) was a sorry lot now. Henry stared at his food, angry and not eating, and Victor seemed somehow more miserable, sniffing into his mashed potatoes. Belch had left at some point, though Bill could not remember when.  _

_ "It's a real shame that you couldn't sit and eat with your friends, Bill. They'd sit with you, right?"  _

_ "Is th-th-there a r-r-reason you're over here?" _

_ Patrick lifted up his shirt and produced something from the waistband of his pants. It was a book. Eddie's book. Partick opened it to the front cover where Eddie'd written his name and read it aloud, "Edward Kaspbrak, 2018, Mrs. Douglas's class. Cute." _

_ "Why d-do you have that?" _

_ "He left it behind and it seems real important to him, doesn't it? I was just wondering if you'd make sure he got it back. We wouldn't want him to get behind in his school work." _

_ "Yeah. Sure." Bill reached for the book, but Patrick stopped him. _

_ "You know, I really love this book. I mean I love your work too, so don't get jealous, but Mary Shelley is something else, isn't she? I mean it's tragic if you think about it, Frankenstein is now such a cliche stock monster in our cultural perception. I don't mean to complain though, I liked the movie. You know the part where Frankenstein shocks that big hunk of sewn up parts into life and screams his iconic line, "It's alive, it's alive,"?  Well, he originally said, "It's alive, it's alive. In the name of God, now I know what it feels like to be a God." The censors cut that bit out. Too blasphemous, I guess. It's funny what values we hold dear to ourselves, isn't it? Anyway, the movie is fun and all, but it cheapens the book. I mean the book is just so literary, you know. I just love it." Patrick flipped through the book before settling on a passage, "Just take this bit where the monster is taunting Frankenstein by describing murdering his brother, 'The child still struggled and loaded me with epithets which carried despair into my heart; I gasped his throat to silence him, and in a moment he lay dead at my feet. I gazed upon my victim and my heart swelled with exultation and triumph.'" _

_ "C-c-c-c-c-c–" _

_ "What is it, Billy?" Patrick laughed. "Cat got your tongue?" Bill shot a look to the tech on duty and the tech looked back. For a moment they locked eyes. Then, the tech looked at Patrick and turned away. "I'm just kidding around with you, Mr. Denbrough! I thought you liked horror books? I mean yours are so fucked up, you know that right? I mean God! You must have a really fucking crazy mind." _

"Bill? Bill are you okay?" 

"I'm f-fine! Why w-w-wouldn't I be fine?" Bill laughed. His hands were shaking again. "Have p-p-people b-been s-saying I'm not fine?"

Stan knit his eyebrows. "No, no one's been saying anything."

"Are y-you sure? B-b-b-because the other l-l-losers have b-b-been acting weird around me. Is R-Richie m-mad b-b-because of wh-what I s-said earlier?"

"Well he was until you apologized, but he's fine now."

"Apologized?"

"Yeah, like right after he spent all of snack glaring at you like an idiot. Bill, are you sure you're okay?"

_ "Why d-d-did you c-c-call him Georgie? A few d-d-days ago y-you c-came up t-t-to me and asked m-me if Georgie was my b-b-brother." _

_ "I told you, I like true crime." _

_ "B-b-but that's the thing." _

_ "The thing?" _

_ "N-n-n-no one c-called him Georgie outside our f-family. It wasn't in any of the p-police reports or the n-news articles or the obituary. So h-h-how d-did you kn-know that that was his n-nickname?" _

"Bill?"

_ "I have to say that I'm afraid of how you're going to react when we start talking. I don't want to send you back into a dissociative crisis." _

"Y-yeah, Stan. L-like I s-said

_ I'm fine." _


	12. Act Four, Scene One: One Flew Over

#   Act Four, Scene One: One Flew Over

_ "There's a party tonight." _

_ "I'm sure there is." _

_ "You're taking me." _

_ "Am I?" _

_ "You are if you ever want to get your dick wet again." _

_ "I'm not getting dick wet now." _

_ "And you won't get any closer if you don't take me to the fucking party. Marci's going with Pete and Moose–" _

_ "Moose is a fucking retard."  _

_ "Well, he's bringing barbs." _

_ "Barbs? Who the hell does barbs anymore? This is not the fifties, and I hate to tell you this Greta, but you are not Marilyn Monroe. I don't see why you don't just nab some benzos from your dad."  _

_ "Oh please, benzos are boring. Besides, I think my dad's onto me. Last week an entire blister pack of Ativan completely disappeared from my underwear drawer." _

_ "Did they disappear or did you just do them all and forget?" _

_ "Whatever. All I'm trying to say here is that Moose has enough reds to kill a horse and as long as you supply the weed, we'll be sitting pretty." _

_ "Can't do that." _

_ "And why the fuck not?" _

_ "Because it's one thing to smoke weed and a whole 'nother to supply it. If we get busted and I've got a whole lot on me, I'm dead in the water. I'm trying to get into West Point, you know." _

_ Vic stubbed his cigarette out on the console of his mom's '96 Toyota Camry. The butt sizzled against the plastic casing, leaving a nice burnt ring right next to the tape deck. His mom wouldn't notice though. She'd left enough of her own burn marks on the damn thing for there to be a SpaghettiO pattern in ash. Greta glared at him. She hated when he did shit like that. She also thought it was kind of hot. She kicked back in her seat. They had a nice scenic view of the East Derry High parking lot. A blanket of fog sat over the football field and the sky was a hazy gray. Vic shoved his seat back as far as it would go and lit another cigarette.  _

_ "Fine. Weed's stupid anyway. That shit makes you retarded," Greta said. She snatched the cig from Vic and took a drag before sputtering out a cough around the smoke. She added to the collection of O's. _

_ "Weed doesn't make you anything. That's the whole fucking point. Now you and your stupid rich friends with all your designer drugs – that's the kind of stuff that fries your circuits. Not that you would know, seeing as you're dumb enough to waste a whole fucking cigarette. Ten bucks a pack plus tax doesn't mean shit to you." _

_ "You think you're real hot shit, don't you? All this crap about West Point – newsflash, Vic, you're not getting in. You can talk crap about me and my friends all you want, but at the end of the day, your mommy's a meth addict and you're a dumbfuck who's taking freshman English as a junior. So if you want to talk about frying circuits, blame her, not me." _

_ Vic turned away from her and watched the fog. It was early. School didn't start for another hour or so, but Vic had wanted to run the track a few laps before first period. Greta liked to watch. She could sure be nice when she wasn't in a bitch mood. Too bad a bitch mood was seeming more and more like her default. _

_ "Aw, did I make baby sad? You think you're such a big man–" _

_ "Shut up." _

_ "You know you've got to stop being so emotional. I mean for fuck's sake people are going to start thinking you're some sort of fag–" _

_ "People wouldn't think I'm a fag if you'd put out." _

_ "Oh, ok. That's how it is? If you want an easy lay, just hit up Beaverly, you piece of shit. You wanna know what I heard?" _

_ "No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me anyway. I don't know why you're such a bitch to that girl." _

_ "Well you'd understand if you knew her. I heard she fucks her dad." _

_ "Jesus fuck." Vic grabbed his JROTC uniform and got out of the car. He slammed the door behind him and started walking down to the track. Greta followed.  _

_ "It's true."  _

_ "That's fucking disgusting." _

_ "I know. Last night I was helping dad around the store and in walks the little slut with her daddy. He just stands by the door with his arms crossed. He was staring at her with this mean old glare and guess what she buys?" _

_ "I don't care." _

_ "A fucking pregnancy test! Can you believe it? Imagine giving birth to your dad's baby. Gross, right? I bet her whole family is like a horror movie where everyone looks like Sloth from The Goonies. Wanna bet that her parents were siblings? That'd make her dad her uncle too. God! What would that make the baby? He'd be it's dad, it's grandfather, and it's great-uncle." Greta shrieked with laughter.  _

_ "You come up with the weirdest shit, I swear to God." _

_ "Nah-ah. I'm not making this one up. Her dad's been getting her birth control from my dad's place since we were in sixth grade." _

_ "No fucking way that's true! Don't you need a prescription for that? I hardly think a doctor would write out a 'scrip for a kid." _

_ "She probably just said it was for hormone regulation." Greta had just started The Pill herself – a fact which she reminded Vic of everytime he seemed close to leaving her by the curb. "That's what I told my dad so he'd let me get on it."  _

_ "I don't see why you even bothered getting on the pill if you're not planning on putting it to use." _

_ They reached the track and Vic put his uniform down on the dew-covered bleachers. Greta sat right on his folded pants. _

_ "Oh come on! Why do you have to be a bitch like that?" _

_ "What? I don't want my skirt to get wet." _

_ Vic glared. _

* * *

  
  


The first thing Victor Criss noticed upon waking up was the bird perched on the end of his bed. It cocked its little head and let out a  _ tu-whit, tu-woo.  _ Vic sat up and cocked his head too. The bird looked at him with its shiny eyes and Victor saw himself in them. It was early. Too early to be up. His room was dark and if it weren't for the light spilling over from the hall, he wouldn't see the bird at all. But he did see it. Or at least, he really hoped he did. It looked a bit sad. Sick, maybe. 

The second thing Victor noticed was the pressure on his bladder. He had to pee. Badly, too. The whole situation was a real mess. Victor Criss wasn't  _ stupid. _ He knew that it didn't make much sense for a bird to be in his room – his very secure room at the end of a hall behind a door and another door and six more floors before another big door – and birds don't ride the elevator. Vic knew that much. And yet there it was with another  _ tu-whit, tu-woo,  _ just staring and talking.

"Don't do that," Victor said. 

_ "Tu-whit,"  _ the bird said.

"Be quiet."

_ "Tu-woo." _

Victor's bladder yelled at him; the bird looked at him. And then there was a conundrum. The bird was real. As impossible as it seemed, Victor  _ knew  _ it was real. It was right there looking and singing and  _ existing. _ And yet. And yet. And yet! 

_ "Tu-wooooooo." _

"Why are you here?" 

_ "Tu-whit." _

"I shouldn't be here either."

_ "Tu-woo." _

Frustration pulled at Vic. Frustration and fear. Yessiree. There was some real fear there, rattling about in Vic's brain. He knew his bird was real. He knew and he knew and he  _ knew–  _ but what if it wasn't? What if he got out of bed and the bird just disappeared? There was the pain! Victor knew his reality was real, and yet he also knew the lengths at which others would deny that reality. 

Lots of people had conversations about him when they thought he couldn't hear them. Or maybe it was worse.  _ Maybe  _ they knew that he could hear them and yet they knew how little of a difference that made so they just kept on talking. If he were to approach the bird and find his fingers go straight through empty air, then they would be right and that would make him crazy. And Victor wasn't  _ crazy.  _ Not stupid and not crazy. But he was scared. Scared to get out of bed. It was the fear that his reality, as small as it may be, would fall apart as soon as he rose to his feet. And Victor Criss, who was very much a child, did not know how to deal with such an adult fear. But he really did have to pee  _ very _ badly. 

He got out of bed and stood on wobbly feet. He shielded his eyes and ran to ensuite bathroom to relieve himself. He caught a pallid face in the mirror – one that he wasn't quite sure was his own, but when he wiggled his eyebrows, the mirror boy's eyebrows wiggled too, so that was evidence enough. He took a wiz and washed his hands. The toilet flushed just as loud as it always did and the room was pretty much the same as it always was. How long was always? Vic wasn't quite so sure.

 

* * *

 

_ Greta reached into her shirt and adjusted her tits. Her Tiffany's bracelet jingled on her wrist. She stood up, grabbed Vic's hand and placed it on her ass. He pulled her forward. There were some fleeting moments where Vic really did enjoy his time with his girlfriend. This was one of them. She snuck her hand between them and cupped his dick through his gym shorts. Greta Keene might not put out, but boy oh boy, she sure was the queen of handjobs. She gave a few strokes, just enough to get him hot.  _

_ "Take me to the party tonight, Vic," she whispered. She spit into her palm and reached into his shorts. A high-pitched whine whistled through his throat as she wrapped her hand around his dick. Greta Keene, through and through, was one of those almighty Teenage Goddesses. With her Covergirl eyes and her Maybelline lips and her ten-piece plastic headband collection, Greta skipped her way through the halls of Derry High, the aisles of her dad's pharmacy, and right into Victor Criss' life. She fancied him something fun, like a dangling little toy. And boy, did she like to bat at him.  _

_ Vic could forgive Greta for a lot of things. Whether it be rubbing her ass on his uniform or that one time she thought that Purell might make good lube for a handy, Vic was caught up in her wiggling bait. Maybe that's why she wouldn't go all the way. Bait ain't bait once it's all ate. After that, what more would she be then a bitchy hook? She wrapped her hands tighter around his dick and picked up the pace.  _

_ "You're going to take me to the party."  _

_ "Yes."  _

_ "You're going to wear that shirt I like."  _

_ "Yes." _

_ "You're going to get fucked up with me."  _

_ "Yes." _

_ "And you're going to bring the weed."  _

_ "Yes!"  _

_ Vic came in his pants. Greta pulled her hand out of his shorts and wiped his spunk on his folded ACU undershirt.  _

_ "What the hell?" Vic said, still panting. But Greta was off. She grabbed her bag and headed off to the school building where Vic could already see a line of cars forming where the underclassmen were dropped off. And Greta, just like his quickly-crusting underwear, was suddenly very unpleasant.  _

_ She turned around and blew him a kiss before leaving him alone with his cum-stained uniform. _

_ "Bye, babe!" _

* * *

  
  


_ Tu-whit, tu-woo,  _ the bird was still there when Vic came back from the bathroom. Still staring and still singing. And suddenly that seemed so much worse. It was on his bed now in a melted little pool of feathers. It seemed very young. Not quite a baby – old enough to fly – a child, maybe. If there were bird-children, that was. Victor saw its orange-dotted round belly in the low light, but he wasn't quite ready to break the rules and turn on his lights before he was supposed to. There were a lot of Not Supposed Tos and just getting up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night was one of them for Vic. He was supposed to wait for the nice morning nurse to help him get to his feet and put on his special socks so he wouldn't fall. Sure he stumbled sometimes, but he didn't actually fall! Had he ever fallen? Vic couldn't remember. It was all very foggy and very painful. 

The bird  _ tu-whitted  _ again and an empty huff of air came rattling out of it. And then the puddle of feathers opened its beak into a yellow diamond demanding food. 

And that meant it was time to get help because Victor absolutely did not know what to do, but he figured that having a bird in his room was just one big Not Supposed To. He looked at the glowing stream of light from the hall coming from his half-opened door. Someone would come around, right? They would see the bird and they would hear the bird and they would know the bird was real. Right? But Victor knew well enough that the night crew didn't always make the rounds that they were supposed too, and even then, they were  _ mean.  _

Vic peered out his door, but he didn't see a tech. He was ready to go back to bed and hide under his blanket until morning. Maybe the bird would just fly into someone else's room and bother them. But Victor Criss was not a pussy. No, not him. Just as he made to take his first rebellious step out of his room, he heard a moan from the supply closet across the hall. He shrunk back behind the door and peered from behind its safety. The closet door opened and out walked a tech. Victor thought his name might be Craig, but he wasn't sure. 

Maybe-Craig adjusted his pants. Then, like magic, Patrick came out of the closet right after him, wiping the corner of his mouth.

"Get back to your room," Maybe-Craig said.

"Oh, but we were having so much fun."

"I need to do rounds soon. Ken's going to be coming back from his break any minute now and you need to be back in your room with the lights off before he does."

Patrick frowned. "Fine, then. Give me a toothbrush and I'll be on my way."

The tech sighed before reaching back into the closet and pulling out a toothbrush. He waved it in front of Patrick. "You know, we're really not supposed to let you have more than one of these things."

"You know, you're really not supposed to let patients suck you off in supply closets," Patrick mocked. "Besides, maybe if you ever thought to incorporate some fruit into your diet, I wouldn't be so desperate to clean my mouth out."

The tech glared at him. He handed over the toothbrush all the same. "Fine. This is the last one I can give you, though. Eventually someone is going to notice that we're running low on supply and it's best to avoid questions. I can't see why you don't just use the same toothbrush you were issued when you got here."

"I wouldn't want all that bacteria to accumulate. I believe in good oral hygiene, Craig." 

Ah! So it was Craig then. 

"You're disgusting."

Patrick shrugged. And then he locked eyes with Vic. Patrick's lips stretched into that terrible smile of his. Victor shrunk back into his room.

"Why are you smiling?" he heard Craig say.

"Don't worry."

"You're a real creep. You know that, right?"

"And yet just a minute ago you were fucking my mouth and calling me 'Angela.'"

"You wanna keep it down? If someone hears–"

"Someone already heard."

"What are you talking about?"

"Victor just popped his head out into the hall."

"What? I don't see him."

"Well, he's gone now."

"Oh my God. You're fucking with me, right?"

"I wouldn't think of doing such a thing."

"Jesus! What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Relax. You're lucky it was just Vic. In case you haven't noticed, he's a delusional fuckwad. He doesn't know what he saw."

When Vic turned around the bird was gone. So maybe Patrick was right. He got back in bed and pulled the covers over his head.  

* * *

  
  


_ "Why are you out of uniform, cadet?"  _

_ All of fifth period JROTC was out on the football field for physical training. It was a real sea of camo – well a sea of camo with one spot of blue. Vic was still wearing his shirt from the morning. He'd run home at lunch and made a desperate attempt to wash the splooge stain out of his uniform shirt. It'd been no fucking use. Somehow he'd only made it worse. Now the offending shirt was wadded up in the backseat of his mom's car.  _

_ Their instructor was a fat old ex-army crapola. A real bitter type, too. Just seeing the little speck of blue that was Victor Criss in his Dollar Tree tank top made the veins in his neck pop.  _

_ "I'm sorry. It's just that–" _

_ "No excuses, cadet! Get off my field."  _

_ Vic's face heated. He looked into the blazing heat of his instructor's eyes. They were just begging to be made black and Vic figured he could do it too.  _

_ "Now!" the instructor screamed. Vic didn't budge. "Do you really think this is the time to be insubordinate? I'm one second away from failing you for this entire semester. Is that getting through your thick little skull? Because I'm not so sure your GPA can take that hit, cadet. Now tuck your tail between your damn legs and get off my field." _

_ Vic's lips twitched and he looked into his instructor's eyes just a second longer before wilting away and trudging off the field.  _

* * *

  
  
  


"Good morning, Victor," the nice nurse said as she came into his room and turned on the light. "Did you sleep well?"

Vic thought about his bird. He thought about Patrick. It must've all been some strange dream. It had to have been. "I slept good, I guess." 

"That's nice to hear," the nurse hummed. She helped him get dressed and took his night clothes when she finished. 

"Can I get ready in the bathroom by myself today, Miss Sadie?"

Miss Sadie was a big woman whose body stretched out her nursing scrubs. She was nice alright, but Vic sometimes got the feeling that he irritated her. She shot a glance to the bathroom. The doctors made her help him with a lot of things in the morning, toilet sometimes included. Vic wasn't sure why, he certainly hadn't asked for such assistance. 

"Hmm," she said. "How's the confusion today?"

"I'm not confused."

"Ok. How about dizziness?"

"I'm not dizzy."  

"Alright, Vic. But don't get in the shower by yourself, ok? We can't have you falling." 

"Yes, Miss Sadie," Vic agreed. 

"I'm going to check on you in five minutes, ok?"

"Ok," Miss Sadie said as she left Vic alone in his room.

Vic rubbed his eyes and went into his bathroom. There, in the center of the sink, sat his bird,  _ tu-whitting  _ and  _ tu-wooing  _ away, real as can be.

* * *

  
  


_ Peter Gordon, a verified dumbass who just so happened to also be Vic's closest thing to a real friend, caught him by the locker room where he'd been spending his own fifth period chewing on the end of a cigarette. He didn't actually smoke, but he liked people to think he did. Pete was a rich kid – one of those motherfuckers who could live their whole lives on West Broad Street – but he was alright. He and Vic met back in the third grade when school was still a free-for-all friendship breeding ground. Nowadays, Pete dated Marci and was the sonuvabitch who'd introduced Vic to Greta.  _

_ Vic walked right past him. Pete caught his shoulder.  _

_ "Aren't ya supposed to be fagging around on the football field right about now?"  _

_ "Piss off. You hear about the shit Greta pulled this morning?" _

_ Pete laughed. "Oh yeah, spunk on your shirt, right? Marci told me." _

_ "It's not fucking funny." Vic shot a look down to the football field. "I got in trouble over it. Greta's a real cunt and I'm starting to get tired of her." _

_ "I'm not saying she isn't, but you really let her walk all over you. If Marci pulled that shit with me, I'd be rubbing her damn nose in that shirt. You know that's what you gotta do. It's like when a dog pisses on the carpet, you just gotta grab 'em by the fucking scruff and really bury their muzzle into the stain. That's the only way to teach 'em."  _

_ Vic thought about it.  _

_ "Anyway, you're coming to the party tonight, right?" _

_ "Greta's making me." _

_ Pete made some half-ass whipping noises. "She's really got you by the balls, Criss." _

_ "Yeah, well I'm dumping her the minute after she puts out and then you're going to be the one having to deal with all of it." _

_ "What makes you say that?" _

_ "Because she's going to whine to Marci and Marci's going to whine to you. If you think I'm at the end of the bitch food chain now, just you wait." _

_ "Shit, you're right. Come on, Vic. You gotta stay with her, then. Just don't let her keep getting away with shit. Who knows, maybe she'll ease up tonight. You hear Moose's bringing pills?" _

_ "Yeah, I heard." _

_ "It's real strong shit, too. You might get some crazy ghost sex if you play your cards right." _

_ "What the hell are you talking about?"  _

_ "You didn't hear?" _

_ "Didn't hear what?" _

_ "We're not having another house party. No-fucking-way. Tonight, we're going up to Juniper Hills." _

_ Vic knew well enough of the Juniper Hills legend. It was Derry gospel. "Isn't that where they took Henry Bowers when he went nuts and started talking to the moon?" _

_ "You bought that shit? Henry's dad just sent him to reform school. Juniper Hills is abandoned, probably for a long time now. Marci and I were driving up to Augusta last weekend when we took a wrong turn and stumbled upon it. Place is creepy as hell." _

_ "So you're saying that you two come across an abandoned insane asylum and your first thought is, 'oh! What a lovely place for a party! Let's all get fucked up and die in a fucking horror movie.' That's some stupid shit, even for you, Pete."  _

_ "It's not just an insane asylum – it's a  _ **_criminally_ ** _ insane asylum. Don't tell me you're not at least a little curious about what's in there." _

_ "It doesn't matter if I'm curious or not. As you kindly put it, Greta's got me by the balls." _

_ "Ok, how 'bout this. Tonight, Moose and I'll make sure to get Greta real doped up. Loosen her up a bit, ya know? So long as you pace yourself, you can make her putty in your hands." _

* * *

  
  


Mike wasn't at breakfast. Mike was  _ supposed to be  _ at breakfast. It wasn't just because skipping breakfast was a Not Supposed To, but Vic needed Mike because all of the sudden he had real problem. He hadn't told Miss Sadie about the bird. He hadn't told  _ anyone.  _ And he couldn't. He had wanted to, but all that  _ tu-whit, tu-wooing  _ was chirping about in his brain and it was altogether too loud to hear anything else. Everything was thick pea soup fog up in Vic's brain and the only one who might have any clue what to do about it was Mike. And Mike was not there. 

Vic barely picked at his food. He looked over at the table the A Warders had crammed full of chairs so they could all sit together. Richie was laughing at something Beverly had said. Vic looked at his own tablemates. Henry was scowling into his bowl of oatmeal.

"Do you guys know where Mike is?" Vic asked. 

Henry's eyes snapped up.

"You really are a dumb cunt, aren't you? Mike left yesterday."

"I need to talk to Mike."

"Well, you can't."

"But I need to."

"You can't talk to someone who isn't here! Are you really such a numbskull that you can't understand something as simple as that? I mean for fuck's sake!"

The tech on duty looked up from his post. "Quiet down, Henry."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

"Yeah Henry," Patrick sneered, "quiet down." 

Henry glared at Vic and dropped his voice. "Mike's gone and now you're all alone. I hope you know that. No one likes you. After that little stunt you pulled yesterday, calling me an asshole and all that crap, you're finished. I'm not putting up with you anymore. So get your ass up, and leave my table."

Vic frowned. Across the room, the other table was laughing. 

"I can't," Vic said. "We're not supposed to get out of our seats during meals."

"Too bad."

Vic looked to Patrick. Patrick looked back with those blank, reflectionless eyes. He smiled. 

"We don't want you to sit here," Patrick said, "so move."

Vic shot a look at the tech, who offered no sympathy. He picked up his tray and walked to the loser's table.

"Can I sit with you guys?" he asked.

Richie, who'd been making moon eyes to Eddie, looked at him and laughed. "Nope," he said, popping on the 'p.' 

"How come?"

"Table's full."

"Oh c-c-come on, R-Richie," Bill said. He scooted his chair closer to Eddie. Vic couldn't help but notice that Eddie flinched just a little bit when he did. "We c-c-can m-make room."

"Really, Bill? In case you don't remember, Vic is the one who ripped out Stan's hair."

Vic didn't remember that.

"And I forgave him," Stan said with a tight but kind enough smile. "You can sit with us."

Vic smiled and pulled up a seat between Bill and Stan. He started eating again, but the conversation at the table did not return to its previous ease. Vic tried to start up a conversation with Bill, but he found that Bill didn't have anything to say. 

* * *

  
  


_ Greta and Vic got to Juniper Hills a few minutes past ten. They parked out front next to Peter's Mustang and Moose's Camaro. The Camry was sandwiched in a muscle car sandwich and Vic had never felt so pissed that his mom drove such a piece of shit. Vic had his eyes on a '97 Firebird that'd been rotting in the Tracker Bros. lot for a good ten years now, but for now, he was stuck with the Camry. At least it was all his as long as his mom's license was suspended.  _

_ Vic stubbed his cigarette out and looked at the building beyond his dashboard. It wasn't what he'd expected. The sky wasn't purple with lightning, there were no spiraling brick turrets, and there was no wrought-iron fence with cobwebs clinging to the spikes. The architecture wasn't Gothic at all. Had Ben Hanscom been there, he would have correctly identified it as a mid-50's strictly functionalist Bauhaus knock-off. To Vic, it looked a little like a prison. It was a squat cement building with a dozen windows arranged in three symmetrical lines and plain double doors in the center. There was no decoration, no embellishments – no derelict gargoyles or carved trim to be seen. Had it not been for the vines reclaiming the side of the building, Vic would doubt the whole abandoned thing altogether. The Camry's headlights illuminated a small 'No Trespassing' sign that was no more menacing than the one that sat in front of the trailer park Vic lived in. Under it, Pete and Greta were making out. Moose was ogling them. Vic hadn't been expecting Shutter Island exactly, but this, well it was almost a disappointment.  _

_ Vic got out of the car and Greta followed. They hadn't talked much on the way up, which was surprising, coming from Greta. Maybe she'd sensed that she'd pissed him off. Or maybe she'd suddenly matured into an introspective individual. Probably the former. Vic grabbed a Ziploc full of weed. Sure he'd caved in, but he'd brought the weakest bud cut with spice that his neighbor sold as a silent sort-of 'fuck you' – not that Greta would be able to tell the difference anyway. Moose and Pete might, though, so he had a dime bag of something a bit more potent to split with the boys.  _

_ "Hey lovebirds," Greta called. "Can we get fucked up now?" She giggled. For Greta, the notion of 'getting fucked up' was the real thrill for her. Vic figured he was much of the same to her. He was her bad boy. She didn't like him, not really, but at least he pissed of her daddy.  _

_ Marci pulled away from her boyfriend and ran up to Greta. They babbled on a bit while Vic went up to Moose and Pete. _

_ "You've got to be fucking kidding me with this place, Pete," he said. "You said it was supposed to be cool." _

_ "Oh, come on, Vic," Pete insisted. "It is cool!" It wasn't.  _

_ "Yeah, this isn't really what I was expecting either," Moose said. "Who else is coming?" _

_ "No one, it's just us," Pete said. _

_ Vic groaned. "Well, what the fuck are we supposed to do here?" _

_ Pete smiled and led them to his car. He popped the trunk. Inside, there were a few flashlights, a couple of six packs, some cans of spray paint, and a steel baseball bat. "Let's go exploring!" _

_ Greta and Marci joined them and Moose pulled out a baggie of red capsules. "Exploring, indeed." _

 

* * *

  
Vic sat by himself in the common area. Never in his life, as far as he could remember, had he ever felt so sad. But then again, there was a lot he couldn't remember. All he knew was he was ready to go home. When he'd first gotten to Derry Home Hospital, it'd all seemed like fun. Now, he couldn't even remember where he'd been before. He'd been living with his mom, hadn't he? He tried to think of home, but the whole concept seemed very grey and very lumpy. All his memories were much of the same – shapeless mush that made no sense at all. 

He stood up and walked over to the phone, but the numbers were completely indecipherable. He picked up the receiver and the dial tone blared into his brain.

"Miss Sadie," he said to the wall. He slammed the receiver back on the hook. "Miss Sadie!"

The nurse came rushing over.

"What is it, sweetie?"

"I need to call my mom, but I can't remember how."

A sad look fell over Sadie's face. "I'm sorry, Vic."

"Can you help me?" Panic washed over Vic. He had to call his mother. He couldn't remember the last time they talked and he needed to hear her voice. It was a kind voice, wasn't it? His mother would help him, wouldn't she? She would. She had to. He could tell her about the bird and she'd have all the answers and Vic absolutely, completely  _ needed  _ to talk to her. The lights had never seemed so bright and his brain was full of  _ tu-whits  _ and  _ tu-woos  _ and the dial tone all at once. Vic's heart pounded in his brain and he felt his knees buckled beneath him. Sadie caught him before he could fall. "Help me," Vic pleaded. "I want my mom to pick me up now."

"Are you having one of your headaches?"

"I want my mom."

"I don't have your mom's number, sweetie. I'm so sorry." 

Sadie became blurry as tears overtook Vic's vision. 

"What about Mike? I have to call him. You've got to know his number, Miss Sadie. Don't you know his number?"

"Vic–"

"Could you please check his file? You've got to have it in there. You've got to. I know you do. I need to talk to Mike."

"I don't have his number."

"You're lying! You are! You are! You are!" Vic screamed. A burst of pain went through his head and he pressed against his temples. He squeezed his eyes shut. "My head hurts so bad," he whispered. 

"I know Vic," Sadie rubbed his shoulders. "I know. It's going to be okay, though. Your appointment with your social worker and Dr. Reuter is in a few minutes, do you think you'll be ok to go?"

Vic nodded. Sadie led him back to the common area and sat him down.

"I'm going to go get you some medicine for your headache. Just stay here, ok?"

"Ok."

As soon as Sadie disappeared, Patrick came out of nowhere and sat down next to Vic.

"What's wrong?" Patrick asked.

"Why do you care?"

"I like you, Vic."

"No, you don't. You and Henry were mean to me at breakfast."

"No, we weren't."

"Yes, you were."

"Wow, you must be even crazy than everyone says."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you don't know? You're crazy, Vic. We all know and we all talk about it. You go around telling everyone about your little war stories," Patrick tutted, "it's all very crazy."

Vic shook his head violently. "Leave me alone, Patrick. I saw you this morning. You were doing something you weren't supposed to."

"See, this is what I mean. You see things that aren't there. That's what crazy people do, Vic."

Vic's face fell.

"But don't worry. I'm only telling you this because I'm your friend."

"You're just messing with me."

"No, I'm not," Patrick laughed.

"Yes, you are. You're laughing because you're having fun messing with me."

"Believe it or not, Vic, I've got better forms of entertainment around here."

"What do you mean?"

"Wait and find out."

Vic frowned. He wasn't so sure what to make out of the conversation, but Patrick was staring at him with an ear-to-ear smile, so maybe it meant that they were friends after all. 

"I–" Vic hesitated. He thought about Mike and found that his memory of him was almost as faded as his memory of his mother. For Vic, the only thing he could trust was what was right before his eyes, and right now, that was Patrick. "I think there's a bird in my room."

"A bird?"

Vic nodded. "It's living in my sink."

"Well, that's some real stupid shit, even coming from you. You better not tell anyone else, or they'll put you on the real crazy medicine."

"I'm already on lots of medicine."

"And it only gets worse if you tell. I'm just trying to help you out here."

"You really weren't in the broom closet with Craig this morning?"

"Nope."

"And the bird… what if I keep seeing it, Patrick? It's driving me nuts. Every time I go in my room it's just  _ there." _

"Well now you know it's not real," Patrick smiled. "I'll bet you anything that next time you go to your room, it'll be gone. I promise."

* * *

  
  


_ "This is so lame," Vic said.  _

_ "Oh come on, just give it a few minutes to kick in," Moose said.  _

_ "We took Seconal, not LSD, dumbshit." _

_ "Well, whatever. We'll just walk around here for a while and soon enough Geta'll be barely able to walk. Then you can take her home and do whatever the fuck you want with her, ok?" _

_ Vic nodded after a moment.  _

_ Greta and Marci stumbled through the doorframe. Pete had taken his baseball bat to the already cracked glass front door. A shard still attached to the frame snagged Greta's leg.  _

_ "You wanna watch the fucking glass?"  _

_ Greta just laughed and touched the blood dripping from her gash.  _

_ "Holy shit," she said, "I didn't even feel that." _

_ Greta'd taken three reds washed down with a warm can of PBR, courtesy of Pete. Vic'd limited himself to one, just enough to take the edge off, not to lose his wits. Well not entirely, at least. But hell, it was the strong stuff, so Vic allowed himself to feel it.  _

_ "Give me your shirt," Greta said.   _

_ "No way." _

_ "Vic! I'm bleeding," she whined. "Now give me your shirt." _

_ Pete shot him a look.  _

_ "I said no, Greta. You've already ruined one of my shirts today, I'm not giving you another." _

_ "You weren't exactly complaining this morning," Greta huffed. She wiped the blood on her hand on the concrete wall. Progress. She and Marci, who were sharing a flashlight, crossed their light beam with Vic's. A rat ran out of the dark and they both jumped. "Say what you want, Vic, but this place is creepy as fuck." _

_ "You want another beer?" Moose asked. He'd shoved all the bottles in a backpack that by all probability, had never so much as seen a school book.   _

_ Greta nodded and downed the can in a few minutes. They made their way from the main lobby down the hall. If Vic had to guess, Juniper Hills had probably been abandoned thirty-odd years earlier. The walls were moldy and some showed signs of cracking, but altogether, the structure had held up alright. There were no signs of homeless ever taking up residence either. It seemed that the asylum had simply been shut down, gutted, and left to rot in the tomes of Derry history. There were no stray straight jackets or blood splatters to be found. They walked through the halls with Moose occasionally trying to get a rise out of the girls by making a loud noise, but as the Seconal metabolized further, their reaction times grew slower and slower until finally Moose grabbed Greta's shoulder from behind and it took her fifteen seconds to realize it.  _

_ They stopped walking when they came upon the Blue Ward. Vic shone his light on something carved into the peeling paint so low that someone must've been lying on the floor to do it. It said, 'try to set the night on fire.'  _

_ "Holy shit," Moose laughed, "that's from a Doors' song, isn't it? You think a pyromaniac did that?"  _

_ "Probably," Pete agreed. "I think it's a message. We should all get stoned right here, you know? Let's pay homage to the firebug. Pass the peace pipe all around and all that crap." _

_ Vic yawned. His eyelids were starting to feel heavy and his limbs felt nicely numb. He wasn't huge on the idea of barbs when he was sober, but now, with his edges dulled, he was a fan. He smiled.  _

_ "Sounds good to me."  _

_ They set their flashlights on the ground and sat down. Moose pulled a pipe out of his backpack and Vic packed it tight with the spice mix, good shit already forgotten. Time, it seemed, was slipping through his fingers.  _

_ They took turns taking hits and opened up a few more beers. Vic picked up his flashlight and flickered it on and off a bit, just watching the dust swirl in the light beam. All of the sudden everything felt very funny, he looked at his girlfriend who was staring at the gash on her leg in amazement as it coagulated into dry blackish-red blood. Vic laughed. _

_ "Who wants a tattoo?" Moose asked. He pulled out the jankiest tattoo gun Vic had ever seen. _

_ "You just carry that around? Have you ever even done one before?" _

_ "Uh, yeah. Just last week I was at this party and this guy let me do his bicep. The whole time he was mumbling about Hindu enlightenment. He wanted a goddess I think, but I just looked up a picture of She-Hulk and added a few arms. It was that guy you and Gard used to beat up on. You know, the mouthy one with the coke bottle glasses?"  _

_ "Holy shit, Vic," Pete laughed. "That's Trashmouth Tozier, isn't it?" _

_ Vic cackled. "You're gonna have to burn your tattoo gun now. Tozier's the biggest fag in town. Man, you've probably got AIDS now. I hope you wore gloves when you did that." _

_ Moose dropped his tattoo gun. "Jesus!" _

_ After a few more beers, Greta slumped over in Vic's lap. She laughed a little bit, but really, she might as well have been dead weight.  _

_ "I love you, Vic," she slurred. "I want you to fuck me." _

_ The rest of the circle laughed. Marci was clinging to Pete's side, her skirt rucked up nearly to her waist. Pete grabbed her ass and snuck his fingers through her underwear. Greta wiggled in Vic's lap and put his hand on her hip.  _

_ Moose nudged Vic, "I think it's your time." _

_ "I want you to fuuuuuuuccck me," Greta whined louder. _

* * *

  
  


Deborah, the social worker who ran a good portion of group therapy sessions, was also assigned to Vic's case. Vic knew everyone on the seventh floor got a social worker, but for some reason, he seemed to have to see his an awful lot more than everyone else. Right now, Deborah and Vic sat together in Dr. Reuter's office, waiting for the psychiatrist to arrive.

"How come you always sit in my appointments with me?"

"I'm your medical advocate, remember?"

"Oh yeah, I remember." Vic didn't remember. 

Dr. Reuter came in with a clipboard in one hand and a styrofoam cup of black coffee in the other. He took his seat at his desk in silence.

"How are you, Doctor?" Deborah said once it'd become apparent that Dr. Reuter wasn't going to make the first move acknowledging either of them.

"Oh, I'm fine. Busy, busy, busy. You know how it is, working up here."

"I do."

"But that workload will ease up a little bit," Reuter said with a smile. He pulled a sheet of paper off his clipboard and passed it to Deborah. 

"I'm sorry, why are you giving me this?" Deborah said with a laugh that seemed a little tight, even to Vic. "This is a discharge form. I don't know what you want me to do with it." She handed it back.

"It's for Victor, here. I know it's a little late in the day, but I think we can push through and get him out in a few hours." Dr. Reuter turned to Vic, "How would you like to go home, son?"

"He doesn't have a home to go to," Deborah answered before Vic had the chance to say anything. She shook her head. "You can't discharge him. I don't know what makes you think–"

"Oh for God's sake, Deborah, the boy's been here for almost two weeks now and he shouldn't have been brought here in the first place. You know that as much as I do."

"That doesn't mean you can just kick him out."

"I know you're the gung-ho social justice type, but the hospital isn't going to be spending valuable resources on him. We have other patients, you know."

"Do I know? In case you haven't noticed, you're down to three patients in your ward."

"Yes, but it's a ward meant for psychotic individuals. The cops in this town think that they can just swoop up every homeless person who acts a little off-kilter and bring them here. You're the one always going on about how serious problem it is."

"Yes, but turning a nineteen-year-old kid with serious cognitive disabilities no resources to care for himself loose is not the solution."

"You can't have your cake and eat it too."

"Are we getting cake?" Vic asked.

"Look, Reuter, a society can only be measured by how it treats its most vulnerable citizens. If you discharge him today, he will be sleeping on the streets tonight."

"Get off your soapbox. The order for his discharge is coming from higher-ups. He doesn't have health insurance, and the Derry taxpayers aren't exactly keen on picking up the slack. Now I know you think I'm heartless, but there are places out there to help people like Victor here. A psychiatric ward is not one of them. We aren't running a homeless shelter here and we can't make exceptions, even for Vic."

Deborah sighed. "I've got him on the waiting list for a handful of group homes, but it could be weeks before there's an opening. As for insurance, I've been working with Vic to fill out an SSDI request, but it'll be at least a month before we can get a hearing."

"There are plenty of other social programs–"

"And most of them are for veterans."

"I'm a veteran," Vic said.

Deborah ignored him. "This isn't right and you know it. Just across the hall you have a full ward with a patient who has been here since February and no one's kicking him out anytime soon."

"And he happens to be a very famous author with very nice insurance."

"So that's the deciding factor, huh?"

"Look," Reuter sighed. He took a long sip of his coffee and looked at Deborah through thick, cloudy eyes. "It would be a different conversation if Victor was actually suffering from mental illness. What he needs is a neurologist, not a psychiatrist."

"What about his delusions? When he first got here, you put him on a whole slew of antipsychotics the moment he started talking about Desert Storm–"

"That was before we figured out who he is and got a medical record on him. And don't go confusing true psychotic delusions with the lies a man with the mental capacity of a child tells the people around him because he wants to impress them."

Dr. Reuter looked at Deborah. Deborah looked at Vic. Vic looked at the camo pattern on his pants.

"I want to leave," Vic whispered. 

"See! The boy knows what's good for him."

"It doesn't matter what he wants. I'm not signing off on this. It's wrong and you know it."

"If you really think it's so wrong, take him on independently as a pro bono case. Hell, take him home with you! You want to solve the homeless problem? Go ahead."

"You know I can't do that. I have three kids and a sick mother to think about–"

"I want to leave," Vic repeated. He thought about Henry snarling at him. He thought about Richie popping the 'p' in 'nope.' He thought about Mike leaving him. He thought about Patrick and the smile that made his skin crawl. He thought about the stupid nothing-bird. He thought and he thought and he thought and it all hurt so much. "He's saying I get to leave, right? I want to leave. I want to leave. I want to leave!"

"Sign the damn discharge, Deborah."

Deborah snatched the discharge sheet, looked at Vic, and then signed her name. "All I know is that three years ago, Victor Criss was just a normal kid. This could have happened to anyone."

"Yeah, well it could have been worse. Keene's daughter died, you know, and there's a lot of people out there who would say it's Victor's fault. So maybe next time you should think about all the poor kids out there who were born with half a brain, and save your bleeding heart for them."

* * *

 

_ Vic carried Greta back to his car as she giggled and clung to his shoulder. He dumped her in the passenger seat. She slumped over, more asleep than awake.  _

_ "Vic….." Greta whined, "are we going back to your place?" _

_ "I'm taking you home." _

_ Vic started up the engine and pulled out of the overgrown parking lot. Pete and Marci'd decided to stay for the night in Juniper, and Moose thought he ought to join them. The slimy bastard was always pulling shit like that. Vic figured he'd probably use his phone to get a nice recording of the show. Vic cast a look to Greta. A bit of drool was dribbling down her chin and her leg was still caked with blood. Vic was too fucked out of his mind to care much. Before leaving, he'd taken some deep hits and chase'd a couple more reds with beer. His head was starting to feel heavy on his shoulders and he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes. Pete and Moose could call him a pussy if he wanted, but he wasn't even sure he could get it up if he wanted to.  _

_ Vic drove through the tangling back roads as carefully as he could. The trees seemed to twist around them for one marvelous moment. The roads were unpaved and there were a few times where Vic ran over fat tree roots. The world in front of them was little more than inky darkness until it finally occurred to Vic that he ought to turn on his brights. When they reached the long, straight country road, Vic let out a breath. He took his hands off the wheel long enough to light himself a cigarette. The burnt pattern on the console looked like a sky full of black stars. It was almost beautiful. Vic reached past the ash galaxy to turn on the radio. Jim Morrisons' voice pulled through the transmission. _

"Come on baby light my fire… Come on baby light my fire…"

_ Vic pushed himself back in his seat, his foot steady on the gas. _

_ "Well how 'bout that," Greta laughed. "Guess Pete was right. It's a messssssssage."  _

_ She slumped over the center console and her head landed in Vic's lap. He figured her body was finally caving to the somnolence, but then she picked up a heavy hand and brought it to Vic's lap – and oh, he sure did learn quickly that he could indeed get hard on the messy cocktail he'd indulged in.  _

_ "Fuck,"  he grunted. "Are you serious?" _

_ Greta giggled and nodded. She unzipped him and got to work. Just when Vic was sure he was getting another plain ol' handy, she brought her mouth down. Vic took his hands off the wheel and tangled them in her hair. She gagged a few times, but Vic didn't notice. He didn't notice anything but Greta's mouth on him. It wasn't all that great, but hell the hypnotics were working wonders on Vic. _

_ Greta pulled herself off of him right as he was getting close and stared out the windshield. _

_ "What the fuck? Are you seriously hanging me out to dry?" _

_ "Mooooooose," Greta slurred.  _

_ "Are you really thinking about him right now?" _

_ "No." Greta pointed out the window. "Moose." _

_ Vic looked up and saw a bull moose nearly twice the size of his car, running onto the road a hundred or so feet ahead. Its mammoth antlers bucked like a prehistoric beast – a freight train in the distance. Vic froze. The early spring air burned deep in his lungs. And then a moment of clarity over took him and Vic slammed on the breaks. Or well, he really meant to slam on the breaks, but his heavy, drug-addled foot didn't have the sense to move from the accelerator and suddenly they were barreling forward as fast as the little Camry could go.  _

_ Three years later, Richie Tozier, sober as could be, would bring his cheapshit motorcycle up to 100 and kick his feet up on the handlebar not half a mile from where Victor Criss and Greta Keene were thrown in a tangle of limbs and antlers.  _

_ The last thing Vic saw before his brain was knocked to mush was his girlfriend's dead eyes staring at him, half her face that supple Covergirl Goddess, and the other half unrecognizable red meat. _

 

* * *

 

It was dusk once all of Vic's discharge papers had gone through. He sat in the common area with a paper bag. It was mostly empty. Inside were a few pairs of folded paper scrubs, a tattered blanket he'd come in with, and a packet with all sorts of hotline numbers, and prescriptions, and pages and pages and pages that all had Vic's scribbling signature at the bottom, although he couldn't remember signing anything. It didn't matter, Vic couldn't make sense of the words on the pages anyway.

The bird was gone. It must've  _ tu-whitted  _ away while Vic was in with Dr. Reuter and Miss Deborah. When he'd gone to his room to gather his scant belongings, it'd been nowhere to be seen. There was an empty feeling left in his chest. He hadn't thought he'd miss his little birdy, but now that it'd finally disappeared and the chirping in his brain cleared, he did. He tried to cheer himself up by reminding himself that it'd never really existed at all, but that did little to help. 

The T.V. was on in front of him. It had been for a while now. Vic had skipped all the rest of the day's activities and after the staff heard the news of his impending discharge, no one had tried to stop him. That was fine, Vic hadn't really wanted to participate anyway. 

Patrick came in and sat down next to him. 

"You wanna play Madden?" Vic asked.

"No."

"Oh. Ok."

"I heard you're leaving."

"I guess so."

"Too bad, the fun was just getting started. I sort of feel bad that you're gonna miss it all."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"And that's why I like you so much, Vic. Thanks for telling me about the bird, by the way. You're a real pal." The words sounded strange and unfathomed coming from his mouth. Poisoning.

Vic looked at Patrick. He didn't understand him one bit, but then again, Vic didn't really understand anyone.

"I hope you get better, Patrick."

Patrick just smiled. 

"Vic?" Sadie approached them and helped Vic to his feet. "Your cab is here, honey."

Vic grabbed his paper bag and folded the top shut. "My cab? But I don't have any money."

"It's already been paid for by the hospital, so you don't have to worry." 

"Oh. Thank you. Where am I going?"

"Well, they're going to take you to the shelter for the night."

"The shelter? What about my mom? Why isn't she picking me up?"

"Vic, we went over this once already today. Now I put a card with your social worker's contact information on it."

"But I can't… Where is Miss Deborah? I need to talk to her."

"She already went home for the day."

"But she didn't even say goodbye."

Sadie frowned. Her eyes were heavy with pity and exhaustion. "You're going to be fine, Vic. I know you will. The people at the shelter will take care of you." 

Vic wasn't so sure, but he didn't know how to say it. 

"We've got to get you going, Vic."

Sadie took him by the shoulder and led him out of Ward B. Vic turned back and saw Patrick still staring and smiling. The door closed. The hall between the wards was a tiny infinity in front of Vic. 

Sadie brought him to the elevator room and pushed the button for him. 

"Alright, Vic. Once the elevator opens, all you need to do is press '1' and it'll take you to the lobby. Someone downstairs will help you into your cab. Ok?"

"Ok."

Sadie left him alone in the little room waiting for his elevator. Vic didn't notice her leave. Victor peered out the window. The lavender twilight was studded with black spots. Birds. There were dozens and dozens and dozens of them, all together, beating their wings in rapturous harmony. Vic searched his mottled grey memories, which were slowly creeping into solid darkness, and could not recover a single moment more beautiful than the one before him. He stared at the great robin migration and wondered what it would be like to be among their numbers, kissing the sky and flying above the rooftops, into the great world ahead. 

He pressed his hands against the window. His fingerprints christened the glass, which had only just been replaced, with smudgy fingerprints. Vic gave one last look at the birds flying outside. Just for a moment, he allowed himself to wonder if it'd been somehow possible that some stray young bird had gotten lost and flown over the empty sill before the new window had been sealed shut in the watches of the night. And perhaps, all alone with no friends, no family, no way to escape a world that no longer made sense, that bird had made it way into his room. It was impossible, surely. Patrick'd said the bird hadn't been real. He'd promised. And yet, still, Vic wondered. He stared at the birds just a moment longer, listening. 

_ "Tu-whit,"  _ they sang together,  _ "tu-woo." _

He would be with them soon enough. The elevator arrived at the seventh floor and Vic got in.

  
  


 


	13. Act Four, Scene Two: See No Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan decides to take a stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there isn't anything too triggering in here, but there is discussion of suicide attempts and suicide ideation, but nothing worse than in previous chapters

# Act Four, Scene Two: See No Evil

 

When Stan woke up, Bill was already awake. Bill sat, back pin straight, on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall. It was a strange, strange sight, one that was terribly unwelcome to Stan. Bill always slept late. His medication made him do that. But now, here he was, awake. And here Stan was, just barely getting up. Stan always woke up early. With as strict a sleep schedule as the one he'd imposed on himself, it was impossible not too. But not today apparently. That small, slivering break in routine was enough to leave him panicked.

_(you woke up late. you did.)_

_(you probably missed things.)_

_(you probably inconvenienced someone.)_

_(you probably inconvenienced everyone.)_

Stan reasoned with himself. The techs would have woken him up. Yes, surely. There was no way he'd really slept late at all. Bill was up early, then. Very early, at least for him.

Stan turned on the light switch next to him and got out of bed. Bill didn't react. Another cause for panic.

_(he isn't ok)_

_(he isn't ok)_

_(he isn't ok)_

"Bill?"

_(you should've noticed earlier)_

_(you should've done something)_

_(he isn't okay and it's your fault)_

"Bill?" Stan repeated.

Bill turned around.

"M-m-my b-b-b-b-brother," he choked. "My b-b-b-b–"

"Bill, should I get someone?"

"My b-b-brother was b-b-buried w-w-without an a-arm."

Stan paled. A bit of air – or really, all of his air – vacuumed out of his lungs. "What?" he asked in a whisper-soft voice.

"W-w-w-without a f-f-fucking arm," Bill said deliriously. His eyes were bloodshot. Maybe he hadn't actually slept at all. Maybe he'd been sitting there all night

_(in pain)_

as Stan slept.

Bill got up and started walking around the small space that was his half of the room. He looked like at any moment he might just burst into tears like a small child. Stan almost wanted him to. That would be easier territory at least. Something palpable.

"Bill, you're not okay," he said as though it weren't already the most obvious thing in the world.

Bill laughed. "S-s-sure I am."

"No. You were acting weird last night and now…" Stan felt a pulling urge to press Bill about his brother. He'd never so much as mentioned having siblings before, but now… There really was something wrong. There had to be. The day before, Stan had watched his roommate grow more and more unstable. He'd hoped that things would be better now, but they only seemed to be getting worse. "Did something happen?"

"Are you s-s-s-scared?" Bill said, looking at him with wild, fear-filled eyes.

"No," Stan answered. It was the truth. Maybe he should've been, but he wasn't. He knew Bill. Sure it'd only been a little more than a week, but hadn't they spent nearly every waking hour together? And if that wasn't a crash course in getting to know someone, then what was? And more than that, Stan liked Bill. He really, really did. It wasn't just because he was charming, or beautiful – it was because, God Almighty, Bill was

_(beautiful)_

(smart)

(funny)

kind. And right now, Stan needed to give some of that kindness back.

"I'm just worried," Stan said. The words didn't sound like falsehoods falling from his lips. They couldn't – not when they were so genuine. They came from his heart and with any luck, they would reach Bill's. "You can tell me anything, Bill. I'm not just saying that. Anything you have to say, I can handle. I promise."

Bill kept pacing. Finally, he stopped, sat back on his bed, and took up Stan's offer. "I used t-to t-t-take a lot of l-long walks as a k-k-kid. I h-h-haven’t thought a-about that m-m-much since I’ve g-g-grown up. I always sort of j-j-just looked back at it as me w-wanting to b-be out of the h-h-house. I didn’t have a g-great r-relationship with m-m-my p-parents, not after– but I d-d-don’t think that w-was it, Stan. I would w-w-walk d-down Witcham Street, take a r-right on West Broadway, then left on K-Kansas Street. And I w-would walk and walk and walk and walk. S-s-sometimes I'd w-w-walk all the w-way out of town. Often w-w-without shoes. We weren’t p-p-poor or anything, that was just p-p-part of it. I would w-walk shoeless for m-miles, but none of the cars stopped. They p-p-pitied me, I’m sure, but they didn’t st-st-st-stop and a-a-ask if  I was o-ok. I d-d-don’t remember if I ever w-w-wanted them t-to. But n-now, I r-really w-wished s-s-s-someone w-w-would h-h-have st-stopped. Y-you're r-r-right. I'm n-not okay and I w-w-wasn't back th-then either." Bill's stutter was as

_(debilitating)_

_(heart-breaking)_

_(distressing)_

bad as Stan had ever heard it. It seemed almost painful for him to force the words from his throat. The w's made his chest wrack as though he were vomiting, the a's and hard e's pulled tight like a vibrating rubber band, the p's and b's and d's pittered on his lips, and every other syllable or so his voice would waver in pitch and tone in a desperate attempt to stabilize itself. But he did not cry and that was worst of all.

Stan wasn’t sure what to say. He thought about telling Bill that he would have stopped, that he would still stop, that even now, in this strange adult word, he was going to stop. Always. Just to make sure that Bill was ok. But he couldn't say any of that; couldn't even put it into words. Instead, he just said this, "Why was being barefoot part of it?"

Bill answered without a beat of hesitation – stuterless and honest. "Because I’d bleed."

"What do you mean?"

"After a-awhile, I m-m-mean. I would w-walk on the r-r-rough s-sidewalks and g-g-g-gravel d-d-driveways until m-my f-feet w-would bleed. A-and y-you know wh-what? I thought th-that if I w-walked l-long enough, eventually I’d w-w-wear d-d-down the sk-sk-skin and fl-fl-flesh of my f-f-feet until I was just w-w-walking on b-b-bones. I wanted that. I w-w-wanted t-to h-h-hear my heel b-b-bone, r-r-raw and bl-bloody, scrape against the c-concrete. It n-n-never ended up that w-w-way, of c-course. I st-st-stopped bl-bleeding after a while. St-Stopped getting blisters. My f-f-feet just g-g-got callused. And th-then it st-stopped h-h-hurting altogether." Bill frowned. Then, he laughed. "P-people make room for their p-pain, even if they d-don't want to."

"Bill…" Stan caught his roommate's eyes and saw something powerful in them; something good – all though he wasn't sure what it was. The power fell to shame.

"I sh-shouldn't have unloaded a-a-all of that on y-you. I'm s-s-sorry."

"No. No, it's okay. Thank you for trusting me."

"Of c-course. I l-like you, Stan." It was in that moment, when Bill said his name without a hitch, that suddenly Stan was scared. He liked Bill. He liked, liked, liked Bill in that childish infatuation like-like manner. Stanley Uris had never been in love, had never thought he could love, or even that he should, but now with his roommate raw in front of him… Bill hadn't opened up in group. Not really. Sure he participated, but Richie was right in the idea that the group therapies on the seventh floor were all very ineffective. Very surface. But the Bill he saw now was not surface at all – he was all depth. Dark and cold, but also still warm and fucking kind. He was laid out, only for Stan.

So Stan dealt with that in the only way he could. He got to business tidying his space and making his bed. Stretching the sheets tight. Centering the pillow. Carefully tucking his little nub pencil under the mattress. In his head, he recited all the birds he knew – which really, was all the birds. Stan had had a lot of time to learn them.

Bill made his bed too. And they coexisted together peacefully somehow. They were two eyes in the center of a double hurricane. It seemed almost as though they were okay, just a little bit, but Stan knew they weren't. In fact, he couldn't shake the feeling that not only was Bill not okay, but that he was getting worse.

The Scissor-Tailed Flycatcher didn't help this thought. It wasn't an obsession – it was a premonition. He was right to be worried. In just a few short hours, Bill would be clutching a bloody nose, and come lights out, room 715 would be once again, half empty.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bill was taking a shower. It was a triumph. Stan had limited his own shower to fifteen minutes for him. That was a triumph, too. He’d do it for Bill. He was slowly coming to realize that there wasn't much he wouldn't do for Bill.

He’d caught a glimpse of Bill’s scars. There were

_(jagged)_

_(crooked)_

_(uneven)_

deep cuts all across his forearms – it almost looked like he’d been attacked by some deranged animal. And in some ways he had. Couldn't all self-destruction be plumbed down to an animalistic urge to burn everything to the ground? Bill's scars were nothing like Stan’s careful wrist-to-inner-elbow incisions. And yet, weren’t they exactly the same?

Stan let Bill have the room. He deserved the privacy, and Stan wanted to give it to him. He walked into the common area, dressed and ready for the day ahead earlier than he’d ever had before. Still, Richie, Eddie, and Beverly were all already awake. The T.V. was on, but no one was watching it. They were sitting together on the couch. Richie was in the middle, his hair was unbrushed. He was wrapped in his blanket and he was talking in that special Richie way, waving his hands almost conspiratorially.

“No, there’s definitely something wrong about him. I didn’t want to think so at first, but I’m starting to think that his whole nice guy persona is just an act,” Richie said in a tone that should’ve been a whisper but was just a bit too loud to be considered such.

“Who are you talking about?” Stan asked. He had a horrible feeling that he already knew – and of course he did. He started tidying the living area.

_(the box of colored pencils is out of place)_

_(the stack of word searches isn’t in the right order)_

_(nothing is in the right order and it has never been)_

_(fix it)_

_(fix it or something bad’s going to happen)_

“Bill,” Eddie answered. He took a puff from his inhaler. Real or not, he clutched it tight.

“Bill’s going through a hard time,” Stan said. There was a feeling then. A feeling that he had been flown onto some strange tightrope and that he would be balancing not just himself, but Bill too. And damn if that rope didn't shiver. He looked at Richie, “We all are.”

Beverly looked at the floor. Her expression was tight and controlled in a way that kept all emotion at bay. She had seemingly perfected this look. Still, it was clear enough to Stan that there was something terribly heavy weighing on her.

“I didn’t want to say something earlier,” she said, “but, I think you might be right, Richie. Remember when I was sick? That day Patrick told me that Bill was going around saying that he wanted to…” Her hand knotted in her hair and she refocused her eyes on the speckled linoleum tiles. “He said that Bill wanted to fuck me. I– I pushed it back in my mind. I mean Bill’s been nothing but nice to me, but then I noticed him just… staring. Like sometimes I’ll catch him just really looking at me when he thinks I won’t notice. And the past few days… I feel so…" Her voice fell to an almost absent whisper, as if thought by doing this, she could diminish their weight. "I feel like something happened and God, I know how stupid that sounds, but really, I do. I don’t know what or how or anything really, it’s just this awful feeling around me and I can’t shake it and then I turn around and there Bill is staring and staring and staring at me.”

“He’s staring at Eddie too," Richie said. "You know he has the fucking nerve to accuse me of being inappropriate, but he’s a fucking perv.”

Eddie squirmed in his seat.

“I thought you guys resolved this yesterday,” Stan said. “And Beverly, are you really going to trust Patrick, of all people, on this? Like I said, Bill is going through a–"

“On Sunday Patrick told me that Bill was calling me his ‘pet’ or something, I don’t know. I just– I put it aside too, Bev. Holy fuck,” Eddie’s breath picked up. He clutched Richie’s hand and stared at him with wide, panicked eyes.

“You’re okay, Eds.”

“No… fuck.” He took another hit from his inhaler.

Beverly’s eyes rose and met Eddie’s. He took her hands. Bev opened her mouth and looked as though she had something to say, but she closed her lips over unspoken words. There was something there – something real. Some fear. Was there any chance that Bill had been the one to put it there?

_(Yellow-Throat, Oven-Bird, Water-Thrush. The way Bill licks his lips before he says something important.)_

No. Stan was quite sure.

“He said that Bill was the violent type,” Beverly finally said. “I just… I don’t…” Whatever it was, it was lost, at least party so. Buried deep in a torturous fog. Beverly took her hands back from Eddie and rubbed her eyes before tears could fall. She looked away. “I just don’t know.” Puzzlement and fear – that's all it was.

“Well, I do,” Richie said. “The day after Eddie got here, Patrick told me that Bill was looking at Eddie. Except he didn’t. He said it like I already knew, like he was shocked that I hadn’t noticed.”

“Do you guys hear what you’re saying? This is Bill we’re talking about,” Stan heard himself say. He wasn't a brave man. He hadn't brave child. Not him and not then and not now and not–

 _(Page 98. The English_ Sparrow, _is not particularly a native of England and definitely not a sparrow.)_

Stan continued, “Bill, who takes everyone under his wing. Who’s made us all feel welcome and loved and secure. There’s something deeply wrong with Patrick, we all know that. He’s the one who’s been saying things.”

“Stan’s right,” Eddie said. “I just… I don’t know what to make of this. Any of this. Patrick talked to me too. He said that Bill had told him that I liked being called pet. But Bill’s never called me that… And Patrick called me that before, on the first night I got here, I remember because it almost made me shit my pants. But there’s no way Bill could have said anything to Patrick before that, Bill was with me the whole time up until then.”

“Sure Patrick’s a creep," Richie said, "I’ll give you that much. I don’t like the way he looks at Eddie either, but what he’s said about Bill, well it’s true! At least part of it. Bill is looking at Eddie and he is acting strange towards Bev.”

Stan caught Richie’s gaze and bit down on it.

“Richie, Bill’s going through a really hard time. You’ve got to trust me on this. I know things about him that you guys don’t,

_(and doesn't that make you so happy)_

but I promise you that there isn’t a bad bone in his body and I need you to take my word for it. I think we all need to take a step back, ok? We're here on the seventh floor of Derry Home Hospital. This is not the world. The world is somewhere out those windows going on without us. Patrick just wants to start something. In a few days, we'll all be out of here. Bill might not be."

Bill had just turned over so intimately secret to him, and there was no way Stan would pitch it to the wolves. Because right now, that's what they were. They'd been a funny little group, hadn't they? For just a moment in time? And now – was it gone? The little losers' club of the loony bin pulled apart. No, it couldn't be.

"We're friends. I know that much. All of us. Patrick though, he is not. Ok?"

Richie looked at Bev and then to Eddie.

"Ok."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stan got a phone call after breakfast. That was a funny thing – receiving a phone call in the psych ward. First, the caller would have to know that the patient was there (HIPAA prevented any guesswork) and then they would have to go about pressing all different at different as robot voice led them through a maze. But Stan's caller had gotten good at this.

"Hi mom," he said with a smile. He shut his eyes tight as he cradled the phone to his cheek. If he were to open them, the poster would surely nag him again, and underneath his eyelids there could be beautiful things. Red birds flying free against a blue sky. They were there and they were sublime. There was so much that could cause Stan pain, but right now, he was ok and he could be ok, at least for his mom.

"How are you, honey?"

"Oh, you know."

His mom laughed. "Not really. Are you making any progress?"

Stan's whole life had been filled with his disorder, he wasn't even sure what progress looked like. He used think that he did, and it was still something he chased after with such determination, but today

_(the Scarlet Tanager, the Scarlet Tanager. what color is the Scarlet Tanager? why scarlet, of course.)_

Stan clutched his bird book. Whatever was happening in Bill was in stasis, at least for now. He'd kept his head up at breakfast. He'd talked. He'd eaten. Hell, he'd eaten more than Stan had yet to see him. He hadn't exactly cleaned his plate, but it'd been enough to shock Stan. But still–

_(i've never seen a Scarlet Tanager)_

"Yes," he finally answered. He opened his eyes and flexed his hands. His fingers were cold. They were that way most of the time now. With reconstructed veins, he was lucky it wasn't worse. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm good. Your father and I had dinner at a new kosher place in Augusta the other night. It's Jewish-owned and everything. Do you remember Vivien Waal? She went to our temple and was in preschool with you before she and her family moved away."

"Oh yes, I think I remember her."

_(you don't)_

_(you lied to your mom)_

_(what does a Scarlet Tanager look like up close?)_

"Well, it's her restaurant! Isn't that amazing? Your father and I were so shocked when we found that out. I swear you were both little children just yesterday and now she's all grown up."

Stan tried to search his brain for any memory of Vivien Waal. Little children, little children, little children. There was no memory. Stan suddenly felt inexplicably awful. There was some little girl he used to play with out there, all grown up and owning her own business and Stan was still here. Where he'd always been.

"Stan, are you alright?"

"Yes, why wouldn't I be?"

"It's just you hadn't said anything."

"I was just thinking. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. How are you getting on with the other patients?"

"Very well. We're all getting to be very good friends."

"Oh, that's so nice to hear. You know you really ought to try and keep in touch with them when you get discharged, dear. It would be good for you to have friends who share some of your experiences."

_(female Scarlet Tanagers are green. isn't that strange?)_

"Yes, I think that would be nice."

_(just as green as they can be)_

 

 

* * *

 

 

"What's it like being bipolar? Well, I'll tell you. Imagine everyone's brain is an iPod, When you're happy you play happy music, when you're sad you play sad music. Simple right? Well if you're bipolar the only two bands that play in your head are like The Smiths and The Bee Gees and it's just stuck on shuffle. You never know what's gonna play and you're stuck. You're fucking stuck on a rollercoaster ride and there isn't any middle ground! Not for me!"

"Wow, Richie. Thank you for opening up,” the social worker running afternoon group said. They were bringing things back to basics today, it seemed.

"Oh golly gee, you're gonna make me blush,” Richie said. Eddie rested his head on his shoulder.

The social worker cleared her throat. “Let’s all take a moment to remember personal space."

Eddie blushed and picked his head up. Richie just laughed.

Stan kept his eyes on Patrick, just waiting to see something there. But Patrick did nothing but stare right back. His face was as slack as a corpse. Dead. But he was smiling, just like he always was.

“Does anyone else want to share what it's like living with a mental condition?” the social worker asked.

“Why doesn’t Stan share?” Patrick asked.

_(he knows)_

_(he knows you know)_

The social worker looked at Stan. “Are you okay with that?”

“I’d rather not,” he said, not breaking eye contact with Patrick. “What about you Patrick?”

Patrick's smile grew. “I asked you first.”

“I’ll go,” Beverly interrupted. Stan let out a breath of relief, although he wasn’t sure any of them should say anything in front of Patrick. “I met with Dr. Koontz for the first time today and he thinks that I might have PTSD,” she cleared her throat. “I hadn’t considered that before, but I guess it makes sense.”

Patrick took his gaze away from Stan and stuck it to Beverly. Then, so quick Stan would have surely missed it had he not been waiting for something like it to happen, Patrick shot a micro look to Bill. Beverly seemed to pick up on it too.

“I,” Beverly stopped, “I actually don’t know if I feel comfortable sharing it here. I’m sorry.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stan walked into Dr. Koontz’s office and pressed the door shut behind him carefully. He walked in perfect, balanced steps to the other side of the room and took the chair. He did not adjust the

_(crooked)_

_(crooked)_

_(crooked!)_

cushion.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Koontz,” he said, crossing his legs. “How has your day been so far?”

“Oh, it’s been alright. Thank you for asking.” Koontz picked up his notepad and started a new sheet. “How about yours?”

_(Bill in trouble)_

_(Bill on the edge of something bag)_

_(_ patrick _crazy)_

 _(_ patrick _crazy and out to get Bill)_

_(Bill's brother)_

_(without an arm)_

_(dr._ koontz’s _degree hanging crooked on the wall)_

“It’s been fine,” Stan said.

_(really, really, terribly crooked)_

_(so crooked it might just fall off the wall and break)_

“I’m really sorry, but do you mind if I fix that,” he asked, gesturing to the framed degree.

“Let’s leave it for now. You’ve been doing so well, and that’s not hurting anything, so we’ll just leave it be. Okay, Stan?”

“Okay,” Stan smiled tightly. “You’re right.”

“I think it’s time for a us to talk about what led you here.”

“Here?” Stan laughed, “I’ve always been here.”

“You know what I mean, Stan. Two weeks ago, you made a very serious attempt to end your own life. How do you feel when you think about this?”

Stan rubbed at his wrists.

_(tear your skin off)_

_(the degree on the wall)_

_(tear it off)_

“Well I don’t know how to feel, to be perfectly honest. I’m supposed to be dead right now.”

“But you aren’t. Your brain is still going and your heart is still beating and you are here, sitting and talking with me.”

“Yes. It’s very strange, isn’t it?”

“Strange how? Are you resentful for having survived?”

“No, not exactly. You know the people who survive jumping off the Golden Gate bridge?”

“I’ve heard of such a thing, yes.”

“Well they always talk about how right after they jumped they realized that all their problems had an easy fix and then they fly through the sky terrified and full of regret. When they live, they are just filled with this exuberant joy.”

“But that’s not how you feel.”

“No. After I, well you know… I was in the bathtub for a long time. I’m not sure how long it took for me to pass out, but it felt like an eternity. I just kept getting colder and colder and everything around me got duller. There wasn’t a moment where I so much as wanted to get out of the bath and call myself an ambulance. It wasn’t a spur of the moment thing, Dr. Koontz. It was something I’d thought about for a long time, something I’d tried before, and this time, it was supposed to be the end.”

“And it wasn’t.”

“No, of course not.”

“Can you tell me about your earlier attempts?”

“Can I fix your degree?”

“Only if you can tell me why you need to.”

“Because it’s something I can control.” Stan got up, walked to the wall, and spent a full minute perfectly balancing the frame on its nail.

“Stan, you are nothing if not self-aware. I get so many patients in here who have no idea why they do the things they do. Not only do you already know, but you know how to communicate it. That’s very rare.”

Stan hummed listlessly.

“Alright,” Koontz continued, “Let’s start with your first attempt. How old were you?”

“Eight.”

“That’s very young.”

“It is,” Stan agreed. It was easier to talk about these things in the terms Koontz reduced them to. It was almost a business transaction. Very formal – and for Stan, very necessary.

“Most children don’t know very much about death at the age.”

“I didn’t either, at least not really. I just knew that there was an end to life and I wanted that.”

“Tell me the circumstances.”

“Well, I was cleaning my room. Back then I didn’t know why I was the way I was, which made all the more difficult. I think I was making my bed, and I couldn’t do it right. No matter how many times I stripped all the sheets and blankets off and started over, I just couldn’t do it right. It was like I was just surrounded by a world of havoc. And I was! That’s the thing, isn’t it? The world is always like that. But that moment I was just so acutely aware of it. It felt like my walls were coming in on me. So I made my bed again. And again. And again. And again. I was at it for hours and I didn’t even realize it. I don’t know what my parents were doing. Dad was probably at the temple and Mom might have been running errands. I think I was alone. I got tunnel vision, sometimes that happens to me, where everything narrows down to just one mess. Looking back, I’m sure I was having my first panic attack. I took the pillow case off of my pillow and I wrapped it around my neck. I thought that might kill me.” Stan stood up and adjusted the cushion. “It didn’t, of course. I got scared when I stopped being able to breathe. And then I felt very stupid. I calmed myself down and took a nap, I think. It was a very childish attempt if you could even consider it as such.”

“Did you tell your parents about this? Or even just the way you were feeling?”

“No. I was embarrassed.”

Koontz wrote some things down. Stan pretended the scratch of the pen didn’t pull on his anxiety.

“How many other attempts have you made, not including your most recent?”

“Well, there were a few more moments like when I was eight. You know, before I could fully perceive what a true suicide would be like. The first serious attempt I made was when I was fifteen. Or at least it was serious in my eyes. My dad thought I was looking for attention, I think.”

“Tell me about that.”

“I’d rather just skip to the most recent attempt if that’s alright,” Stan said with a pale smile.

“You do realize that that only makes it seem more important to talk about, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we can table it for now. Where do you think would be a good place to start in regards to your last attempt?”

“I’m not sure.”

Koontz flipped through his notes. “Well, you told me in our first session that you were taking a break for school. Can we start there?”

Stan sucked in a breath. “Yes.”

“What led you to that decision?”

“I wasn’t good at school.”

“What do you mean?”

Stan shrugged. “Well for one thing, I was older than my peers. When I was in elementary school, I was held back in second grade because I got sick a lot. So when I started college I was a year older than everyone else. And I know that isn’t a big deal, but for me it sort of was. In high school, I had school friends. Well, sort of. I wasn't close with anyone, and I didn’t see anyone outside of classes, but I got on with people enough because they knew me, you know? I wasn’t popular by any means, but Derry’s small so we all sort of knew each other already. I was able to be amicable. But I went out of state for school and I didn’t know anyone… I didn’t know how to make friends and I felt like an automatic outcast.”

“What about roommates? That’s always a good place to start.”

“My freshman year I was friendly enough with my roommate, and he even brought people back to the room and I got on with them alright too. I, uh, I came out as bisexual around that time and my roommate was cool with it. My parents, especially my dad, took awhile to get used to the idea, but my roommate was there for me.”

“That sounds like friendship to me.”

“I guess it was.”

“What happened?”

“He transferred schools and we fell out of touch. Really, it was my fault. He would send me messages, but I wouldn’t respond. I just couldn’t, I don’t know how to describe it, but I couldn’t. Eventually, he stopped reaching out.”

“What about last year? Were you still in the dorms?” Stan nodded. “And how was your new roommate?”

Stan laughed thinly. “Pretty bad. He requested a room reassignment after a month of living with me. I think if there is any one event for me to pinpoint to what led to where I am this time, it would be then. Although that’s really not fair to my roommate, I was always like this and even if we’d turned out to be great friends, I’m sure I’d still get here again eventually.”

“At that time, was your OCD being managed?”

“Sort of. Before last year, I’d been doing really well. It’d been two years since I’d done so much as hurt myself. In my last year of high school I was seeing a very good psychiatrist in Bangor and I was on a course of medication that worked really well for me. Freshman year, I got disability accommodations, but I didn’t ever need to take advantage of them. I found a therapist close to campus, but I didn’t really need that either. I thought I was as close to being cured as I could be.”

“And then what happened?”

“Well it all came tumbling down, of course. My compulsive thoughts started nagging at me again the summer after freshman year. When I went back to school, they were already screaming,” Stan felt his throat tighten. He swallowed thickly. “And, uh, my roommate was really messy. Which a lot of guys are, but I couldn’t deal with it then. I started touching his stuff. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help myself. I think he thought I was a kleptomaniac, but honest to God, I just couldn’t stand looking at the mess he made of his things. I never took anything, just straightened it. I try to keep my compulsions to myself, I really try. And it isn’t bad when it just affects me, but when I inconvenience the people around me… it makes me a bad person, I think. My roommate confronted me pretty quickly about touching his things.”

“Did you tell him how you felt?”

“Yes. He’d, uh, he’d seen my medicine before. That’s something that a lot of people don’t think about, but if you have an invisible disability like me that requires daily medication, it makes living in a dorm situation difficult. You can’t really hide things like that. So when he confronted me, I told him that I was OCD and that I was sorry and that I’d try to be better.”

“What happened after that?”

“He started touching my things. As revenge, I guess.” Stan’s hands started to tremble. “It started with dumb things. Like when I was out of our room, he’d do something really subtle like just put one of my books out of order or shuffle my papers. It was the sort of stuff that would make me sound crazy if I pointed out, so I stayed quiet. I think that made him mad. He wanted to get a rise out of me, so he made it worse. I’d be sitting at my desk, studying, and he’d walk about and knock everything over.”

“What did you do?”

“I went to the RA for advice. My roommate found out, of course. I came back to our room and he’d… he’d just trashed everything. All my things were just uh, just almost destroyed. He’d torn my mattress off the bed and ripped off all the bedding. He’d taken all my clothes out of my dresser and put them in the wrong drawers. He’d taken the trash from our room and all his friends’ rooms too, and dumped it on my side of the room. He’d even touched all my medication and split the pills into little chalk-dust pieces. When I, uh, when I came back to the room he and some other guys were waiting for me and he was recording with his phone and I,” Stan was vaguely aware that he was on the verge of tears now, “I freaked out. I started yelling and crying and just really,” a breath in, “really just coming apart. And my roommate had been laughing when I first came in, but then he got scared, I guess. He put his phone away and started saying that it’d all been a prank, but I’d snapped. The next day he went to housing and got a new room.”

“Did you tell the administration what he’d done?”

“No. It was like I was eight again. I just felt so embarrassed. After that, I got a single room.” Koontz handed Stan the box of tissues. Stan took one without acknowledging the gesture. “I, uh, I tried to get on with my year after that. I was good at my coursework when I was actually able to do it, but it always seemed to take me twice as long as everyone else to do it. My compulsions were getting worse. I would just have to make everything perfect, you know? Everytime I had to do something like write an essay, I would just be overtaken by this terrible pain in my chest. I would really want to do my work and I knew I could, but then as soon as I sat down and stared at an empty Word document or even just my textbook pages, I’d realize that I’m just completely inept of doing anything. Or maybe it’s worse than that, maybe I’m not inept, but the mere anxiety and fear of that notion was enough to make my chest hurt and my brail stall. And then I would look up to my new, empty room, and everything was worse. Everything was wrong and crooked and out of place and just so terribly oppressive. I’d have to get up and fix everything. I was falling apart again and I was just too damn embarassed to tell anyone or do anything, but I felt so alone anyway that it seemed like even if I did, nothing would change. I couldn’t breathe. I stopped going to classes because I couldn’t. As bad as it was to just be alone in my room, it was so much worse going out into the world.

“Of course my grades started to suffer. My GPA would have plummeted if I’d finished my classes. The worst part was that all of my teachers tried to be just as accommodating as they could. They kept giving me outs, like if I just did these little alternate assignments, they’d pass me because they knew I knew my stuff – but I couldn’t even do that. I’d sit down and I’d try and I’d just have panic attack after panic attack. Every little problem was snowballing into something too big to handle. Every day it just got worse and worse until finally I made an appointment with my academic advisor, and she thought that it would be best for me to take the rest of the semester off and go back home. So that’s what I did.

“I came back to Derry. My dad was so disappointed. I can't blame him though, because I was disappointed too. I leased an apartment because I had enough saved up and I wanted to cling to the last of my independence. And uh, I think that was a mistake too. As soon as I moved what little I had into my apartment, I knew that that was the end for me. I knew I’d die there. I couldn’t go out at all. Every day was the same. I'd wake up and then I'd go to sleep a few hours later. My mom would bring me groceries and sit with me some days, but she was a busy, of course. My dad would come sometimes too and he’d try to get me out of my place. The only time I’d ever leave was to go to temple and to go to the grocery store – but even then I’d have panic attacks. There were some days where I'd walk out of my apartment to do something as simple as take a walk, and I'd just have to turn back around because I couldn't face the world. I couldn’t even get out to go to the park and watch the birds. I couldn’t do anything; I couldn’t live.

“My mom wasn’t supposed to come by the day I did it. I wouldn’t have done it then if I knew she’d come. I didn’t want to be saved.”

“But you were.”

“Yes.”

“And how do you feel now?”

“Not like the Golden Gate jumpers. I didn't suddenly know all the solutions to my problems when I opened my veins. There wasn’t a moment of clarity. As soon as I leave here, I go back to the way I was. There isn’t a cure for me, Dr. Koontz.”

“In our last session, you seemed to be a lot more optimistic, Stan.”

“I guess.”

“Do you still want to get better?”

“More than anything. It’s just… there was two years that I was thinking I was getting better. Two years. And now it’s gone. I think that I’ll always come back to this. Being in one of these places… No matter how good I am for how long, it always comes back to dirt for me. I just want to be able to live. I want to finish school, I want to get a job, I want to have friends. I’d like to have kids one day, and a spouse.”

“I know it doesn’t seem like it, Stan, but I think you can have that life. We can get you stable again.”

Stan looked at the floor.

_(Scarlet Tanagers in the sky)_

“I know. I’ve been getting better, just being here. I was talking to my mom this morning and she said I should keep in touch with the other patients. You know, before I never thought that was a good idea. I always tried to keep the person I am in places like this separate from the person I am on the outside, but now I don’t think there’s a difference.”

“So you’re getting along with everyone else?”

“No, not everyone,” Stan frowned. “But I’ve met some good people. I’ll go back to school in the fall, at least I hope I will, but I’ll be in Derry through the summer. I’ll stay with my parents when I get out, I’m sure. But I want to set a new goal.”

“What would that be?”

“I want to stay in touch with the people I’ve met in here. If they want to too, of course. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone. But I don’t think I would. I think I need to have friends.”

“I think that’s a very good goal."

"I think so too."

"Well I think our next step is to proceed with family therapy and start thinking about your discharge. Now, I know you are scared about leaving, and that's a perfectly logical fear, Stan. I think that you would be an excellent candidate for intensive outpatient, though. I'm working to put together my own program as a sort of transitory form of therapy. When patients leave here, it is incredibly important that they aren't simply thrown to the wolves. If I were to put together a group that would meet during the day, would you be interested?"

"Yes, immensely so."

Stan stood up to leave, but he stopped.

_(talk to him about Bill)_

_(tell him you're worried)_

_(something bad will happen if you don't)_

Stan opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat.

_(he'll know you like Bill)_

_(he'll know you're compromising your own morals)_

_(Bill will find out)_

_(Bill will hate you)_

_(the degree is already crooked again)_

And so Stan wished Dr. Koontz a good rest of his day and left.

 

 

* * *

 

 

At lunch, Stan stood up from the Losers' table, walked over to Patrick, and sat right down.

"Well, well, well," Patrick said with a laugh. It was an awful noise. Rehearsed, in a way. It seemed almost as though Patrick had spent time practicing what a laugh should sound like and he got it just a little bit off. Stan probably wouldn't have picked up on it in any other context, but right now, right here, he did and it left the hairs on his neck standing. "Welcome. Take a seat why don't you. Are you finally seeing what type of person Bill is?"

"I'm not scared of you."

"Sorry?"

"You heard me. I know what you're doing, and I'm not scared. I'm telling you to stop."

"Oh you are just the cutest thing. Do you know that? It's really too bad that Bill–"

"I'm not going to believe anything you have to say about him, so whatever it is, you can just swallow it right now."

"Bill isn't who you think he is. He–"

"I don't care. I've been in places like this all my life and I've met every type of person there is. I've learned to take people at face value. Bill is good and you are not. It's really as simple as that. You can argue philosophy until the end of time, but it all comes back to this: people are the sum of their actions. You go after the most vulnerable people and you pick at their minds. I know everything you've told my friends and now we all know who you are."

"Oh? Then who am I?"

"You are a creep. You make people uncomfortable. You aren't charming. You aren't funny."

"Aw, that's really not very nice. You would think that a twinky little obsessive jewboy would know not to make fun of people. It's cute that you think you know things. There isn't a conspiracy going on. Can't a guy just want to watch the world burn?" Patrick laughed and grabbed Stan's arms. He pushed his sleeves up. "I mean you should know."

Stan wrestled his arms back and stared straight into Patrick's flat, black eyes. "You went to Richie first. He's the most suggestible, so of course you would. That day, before he crashed, I'm sure his mind was just going a mile a minute. You knew you could just slip in whatever suggestion you wanted and that it would stick. And you saw the way he looked at Eddie, we all did. So you used that.

"Then you turned to Beverly. She'd been open in group about what her father'd done to her. You went to her on the day after her hearing failed, the day she was sick, because you knew just how strong a person she is, you had to get to her in a moment of weakness and plant just the idea that Bill would hurt her.

"Then you turned to Eddie. I think that might've been a mistake, Patrick. But you saw the way Richie and Beverly were shifting their demeanor around Bill and that made you cocky, so you went for it. You scared him. Congratulations. But now we've all figured it out. So whatever the fuck your plan was, it's not happening. You think you have all the power, and maybe for a moment you did. But you don't, not anymore."

And for the first time, that slimy all-teeth smile fell from Patrick's face. Stan was suddenly aware that he was watching something akin to a madman taking his mask off, or maybe that's exactly what was happening. For a moment, Stan was expecting to see fear line Patrick's face. There was none. There was nothing. Underneath the smile he always kept with him there was absolutely nothing.

_(Scarlet Tanager, Northern Cardinal, Vermillion Flycatcher)_

_(For once in your life be brave goddammit.)_

Stan stared him down.

Patrick spoke. "Bill's full name is William Denbrough. He's a much more famous writer than he lets on. His fiance was Audra Phillips. That's right, he likes beautiful, talented, sane women. That's just about the opposite of you, I hope you realize."

"I'm not attracted to him if that's what you're implying."

"You're a really bad liar. I think that all of this, is just posturing. You may think that you and all your little friends had a come-to-God moment or whatever you little Jews call it, but I don't buy it."

"I already knew who Bill is on the outside."

"I'll do you a favor Stanny Boy and ignore that deflection. If you know about who he is then you must you know about his brother."

 _("My_ b-b _-brother was_ b-b _-buried w-w-without an_ a-arm _.")_

"You don't, do you? Well you know something, otherwise you'd be on again about how you won't believe anything I have to say. You're his roommate now, aren't you? Tell me, does he have nightmares? Does he wake up screaming about it?" Stan didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. His vocal chords had simply decided to stop working. "There it is. You're curious. You want to know all about it and you hate that about yourself. Well, I don't blame you. But you really shouldn't be talking about things you don't know, Stan," he tsked. "I mean what if I just went about and told everyone about how Big Billy is big deal horror writer. Do you think people would believe me if I told them that he was faking? That he was just here to do some sort of sick research for his next book? I think they might. At the very least, there would be just a little part of them that would wonder. And wondering is more powerful than knowing, believe it or not."

"You're not going to do that. They wouldn't hear anything coming from you."

"Maybe." Patrick found his smile again. "You know, today I got a present. And it was really just the best thing that could've happened to me. Oh gee, it sure made me happy. But now, I think I'll give it to you." Patrick shot a look to Stan's book. "I think you'll like it even better, bird boy."

If that was a tactic to knock Stan off his game, it worked. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you'll find out."

Patrick stood up and handed his tray in.

"Hey," he asked the tech, "can you take me by Ward A, pretty please? I think I left my jacket in there during morning group."

 

 

* * *

 

 

After dinner, Bill and Stan both went to their room. Vic was gone now. Soon Stan knew that he would be leaving too. Eddie would probably go around the same time, if not sooner. Richie not long after. Beverly just as soon as her allotted time was up. And there would be new people coming in, of course. There was always plenty of people of on the brink of something that needed somewhere to be. It was something Stan didn’t like to think about, but very soon, Bill would be surrounded by a completely different set of people. He himself would be but a fading memory to Bill. Bill was a rock in the middle of speeding stream.

Stan sat on his bed.

_(the mattress is lumpy)_

_(very lumpy)_

_(lumpier than before)_

_(more so on this side than that)_

_(crooked)_

_(very cooked)_

_(more crooked than before)_

He felt an all-consuming urge to strip his bed and make it all over again. He looked at Bill sitting on his bed and reading. He thought about some birds. Not the Scarlet Tanager, something a little more close to him. He picked up his bird book from the bedside table and opened it.

(page 85. The American Robin is a standard to which other birds are compared. It is the common native bird of the East and is also the largest of the thrushes – a relationship seen in the spotted breasts of the young. Two or three broods are raised each year. Homesick colonists names the Robin after a European bird with a much redder breast. The Varied Thrush of the Pacific coast states is similar to the Robin but has a dark breast band. – Length: 9-10 in. Female similar but duller, breast pale.)

“W-w-what b-bird are you r-reading about?” Bill asked suddenly.

“The robin. They're one of my favorite birds.”

“Oh y-y-yeah, y-you w-w-were telling us a-a-about r-robin days,” Bill smiled. It was something of great marvel. And God, it was crooked. Crooked and still beautiful. “I th-thought th-that w-w-was really cool.”

“Yeah,” Stan smiled too.

“W-w-well t-tell m-me about robins. I w-w-want to kn-know all of your b-bird facts.” And damn if that wasn’t the sexiest thing Stan had every heard. He covered his blush.

“Well, there’s a lot of myth around them, which is pretty cool. People used to think that they got their red breasts from diving into the fires of Hell to give water to the sinners. Another myth is that if a robin flies into your house, than someone in your household will die. And you’re definitely not supposed to kill one or you’ll die too. It’s all very morbid, now that I think about it.”

“I think it’s c-cool,” Bill said. “I’m a-always interested in creepy m-myths and th-things l-like that.”

“I’ve read a few of your books,” Stan admitted. It was a strange thing. Never in a million years would Stan have thought that he’d be sharing a room in the loony bin with a famous author.

“Y-yeah? D-did you like them?”

“I did. I’m not usually all that interested in horror, but I thought they were good. My mom hates them though,” Stan laughed. Bill did too. It was nice. “Were you always good at writing?”

Bill thought for a moment. "I w-was always g-good at English. I could m-m-make stories up and write them d-d-down f-from the t-time I could h-hold a pencil. I d-did well in sc-school, too, g-got all A’s as a k-kid. B-But it wasn't b-because I could write or even because I was a good s-storyteller. It's b-because I see things, Stan. I always have. Wh-what were you t-talking to P-Patrick about at l-lunch?”

Oh.

“He’s been saying things that he has no right to.”

“About m-m-me?”

“Yes.”

“Y-y-you d-don’t b-believe h-h-him, do y-y-you?”

“No, of course not.”

Bill got up and started pacing.

“Bill, I don’t want to push you or make you feel uncomfortable or anything, but can you tell me about your brother?”

Bill whipped his head up and stared at Stan. “H-h-how d-d-did y-y-you kn-know I h-h-had a b-b-brother?”

Stan looked into Bill’s eyes and suddenly, he was scared.

“You told me, Bill. This morning, you said that he was buried…

_(without an arm)_

don’t you remember?”

Bill sat back on his bed and put his head in his hands. “I r-r-remember,” he said in a voice muffled by his palms. “Of c-c-course I d-do.”

“You can tell me if you don’t.”

“I d-d-do. I, uh– St-Stan, I n-n-need to l-let y-you know th-that I’ve b-b-been l-losing my g-grip,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“I t-t-trust y-you w-with this b-b-because I know w-what k-k-kind of p-person y-you are. Everyone else in o-o-our w-w-ward is g-g-good, and I l-l-liked th-them all, b-b-but y-you’re s-s-so m-m-much w-w-wiser th-than them. I, uh, I’ve b-b-been g-g-going th-through s-s-some p-pretty s-severe psychosis s-s-since I g-g-got h-here. It, uh, it w-w-was g-getting b-better, b-b-but it’s s-s-starting to g-g-get b-b-bad again.

“W-w-when I w-was th-thirteen, m-m-my b-brother w-was m-m-m-murdered. And, I-I-I– I t-t-told y-y-y-you th-that I’m g-g-good at s-s-seeing things, b-b-but I m-m-missed s-s-something r-r-really b-b-big.” Bill finally started to cry. He folded in on himself and began to sob.

And then the line between them was nothing more than a damned strip of tape. Stan, who had so much respect for rules and guidelines and barriers, crossed the line and held Bill in his arms.

“I’m sorry, Bill,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“H-h-how old d-d-do y-you think P-Patrick is?”

“What?”

“H-h-he c-c-can’t b-b-be older th-than m-me, c-can h-he?”

“I don’t–"

“D-d-d-do y-y-you th-think that k-kids are c-capable of–"

Three techs appeared in the doorway. Stan let go of Bill and stood up. Bill wiped his eyes.

"What's happening in here?" said the tech in front. His name was Jason. Stan knew his name because he knew all their names because it was good and kind to learn people's’ names. Behind him was Dion and Craig. Techs from the B Ward. It was all wrong, very, very wrong.

"St-Stan w-w-was j-just c-c-comforting me.”

"We're sorry," Stan supplemented. "I shouldn't have crossed the line."

"That's not why we're here," said Craig. “We're going to have to go through your room."

“I’m sorry,” Stan licked his lips and cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

"We need you two to wait in the hall."

"W-w-what are you t-t-talking about?"

"Don't make this difficult, William."

"You can't just kick us out of our room," Stan said in a voice that suddenly wasn't his own. It was weak, a whisper of who he was.

"We d-d-didn't d-do a-anything."

_(something's going to happen)_

_(something very bad)_

Patrick had made this happen. Of course it was him. Stan had made the mistake to confront him and now Patrick was showing him what he could do. He was going after Bill. Somehow, somehow, somehow–

_(and it's all your fault)_

"Leave it alone, William. We got an anonymous report from one of the patients. Now I’m sure that this is all a misunderstanding, but we have to check it out."

"W-w-what d-d-do y-you m-m-mean? What o-o-other p-p-patient?"

Stan looked at Bill and prayed everything would be ok. Bill was truly on the edge of something terrible and this might just push him over–

"Apparently Stan is hiding something dangerous in his room."

Something in the world broke just then.

"Although since you're roommates, I'm sure we’re going to have to go through both your things,” said Jason, "but we know you, Stan. I'm sure it's nothing, but we have to follow through on reports like this."

"Me?" Stan said. He tried to laugh, but it came out wrong. "I'm not hiding anything."

The techs pushed into their room. And then they were touching everything.

“Please don’t,” Stan said as they went through his things. “Please, don’t touch my stuff!"

Bill touched his shoulder but Stan shrugged him off.

“It’s g-g-gonna be f-f-fine,” Bill said.

“It isn’t, it isn’t—"

_(everything out of order)_

_(everything touched)_

_(everything crooked)_

_(everything cracked)_

Dion ushered them into the hall with a half-spoken apology. The other A Warders were standing and watching.

"What's going on?" Richie asked.

_(the noise and the noise and the noise)_

And suddenly it was all so, so wrong. Perspiration crawled across Stan’s forehead. they were touching his things and they were touching his things and they were touching his things. He pushed open the door and watched as they pulled his clothes off the shelves, unfolding them all and leaving them in a pile on the floor.

“Please don’t touch my things, please."

“Sounds to me like he’s guilty,” Craig laughed.

“I-I-I—" Stan sputtered, “I’m not guilty of anything, I-I-I swear. Please just don’t touch my things, please. You have no right—" He was crying. He was watching his strange little world burn and he was crying. Patrick was going after him.

_(the pencil)_

_(the pencil)_

_(the stupid nub pencil)_

Patrick had heard him. Stan'd told Richie about his stupid little secret a few days ago at a meal and Patrick had heard him.

_(the floor)_

_(crooked)_

_(please don’t)_

_(please don’t)_

_(please)_

Richie put an arm around him. “Stan, Jesus, man. I know this sucks, but it'll be alright, you’ve just got to let them."

"The pencil," Stan whispered.

"Are you worried about that?" Richie said back. "Dude, I have ten pencils in my room right now. It isn't a big deal."

It felt like a big deal.

Every muscle in Stan’s body tensed. He shrugged Richie off.

“Don’t touch me. Please don’t. Please, please, please, please." He looked back at the techs. Craig threw his bird book to the ground. "Ask Dr. Koontz, I don’t like my things touched I don’t, please just—"

Craig ripped the blanket off the bed and threw it the floor. Then the pillow.

"Come on guys," Dion said. "You don't have to do it like that."

"We've got to be thorough, don't we?" Craig laughed. "Anything you want to tell us about, Stan?"

“Ok," he spat. “Ok I have a pencil under there and I know I'm not supposed to, but I wasn't doing anything with it and it couldn’t hurt anyone anyway, so just take it. I'm sorry, alright. I'm sorry, just please stop messing my things up. Please."

Craig reached underneath the mattress. He didn't pull out a pencil though; he pulled out a bundle of feathers.

“Oh my God," someone said. It might have been everyone.

It wasn't just feathers. It was a bird. It was a robin, barely older than a fledgling, and near dead. A toothbrush was shoved up its throat. And there was blood. It twitched in the tech's hand. There were more techs now, nurses too. Out of the corner of Stan's eye, he saw them. Eddie looked like he might be sick. Beverly too. Richie backed away from him.

And then there were hands on him. He swung. There was a crack. And Bill fell to the floor. People were shouting around him, but he didn't quite hear them. The techs grabbed his arms.

_(you think the world's crooked, but you're wrong)_

_(you've always been wrong)_

_(it isn't the world)_

_(it's you)_

_(it's–)_

Something stung in his thigh and then the world went black.


	14. Interlude: Enjoy the Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan has a conversation. Well, kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowowowow. So it's been a million years since I updated and this chapter is a short quasi-interlude. Sorry. I stopped working on it for awhile to work on a oneshot, but that damn thing is taking even longer to write so I've tabled it for the time being so I can redirect my focus back here. I swear, by the time I'm done with the oneshot, there won't be any fandom left to read it.   
> Anyway....  
> The next chapter will be a real meaty one and won't take half as long to be put up.

 

#  Interlude: Enjoy the Silence

 

“I don’t… I don’t know… I… I just… It’s my whole life, isn’t it? My whole life is just  _ this.  _ Sorry. I don’t know. I really, really don’t. It’s just… It’s just that there’s been this little voice inside of me, ever since I can remember, that is  _ there.  _ It’s there and I don’t know how to make it stop. I want it to. I want it to so bad. But it’s there. And it’s a part of me. 

“You know the Mona Lisa? I saw it once. At the Louvre. My parents paid for me to go to Paris the summer after I graduated high school. And uh, that was sort of a big deal. I was doing well then and so I got to go. Of course, seeing the Mona Lisa was on my list. It’s really on  _ everybody’s  _ list, I think. It’s the most visited painting in the world. And when you go into the room where they keep it, it’s just constantly crowded with people wanting to look at it and take pictures. I waited for hours for the room to thin out because I couldn’t stand the idea of being pushed around. I went and saw some of the other exhibitions and kept coming back to check that one room. Finally, when they made the announcement that the museum would be closing soon, everyone else started heading towards the exit. I went back to the room and there was a security guard who had seen me all throughout the day checking in, so he let me stay in there, just for a few minutes. I think he just thought that I was a big art lover, not just an anxious tourist. He started telling me all these facts about the painting and how amazing it is in real life. And he was just so passionate. He told me that he’d left his job at an insurance firm and moved from his village in Catalonia just to do low-paying security work at the museum – just to be near Da Vinci’s masterpiece. 

“So, I, uh, I go up to the bullet-proof glass that covers it and I look at it. And it’s… Well… It’s this thing that people come from every corner of the world to see, you know? This thing that might be worth more than anything else in the entire world. This thing that led a man to quit his job and move his whole life. This thing of  _ beauty _ that has inspired so many people… I just saw the cracks. On the surface of the Mona Lisa, there are hundreds and hundreds of little cracks in the paint from the wood panel expanding and contracting over the years. And it’s all the little voice could think of. 

“I don’t see beautiful things. I’m not allowed to.

“I really wish I had siblings. It’s not that I was a lonely kid, although I guess I was, but rather I wish I weren’t my parents’ only child. They’re good people. Good parents. But what can you do with someone like me? I can’t go to school, I can’t work a job, I can’t live. And now… Do you think they know? Do you think someone called them? Whenever I’m in the hospital, I sign them both as many rights as I can give them, so the hospital would’ve been legally allowed to tell them. I think my parents would believe it if they did. I really do. But I didn’t do it. I didn’t. I’ve never hurt anything in my life. I’ve never had the urge at all. Never harmed anyone who wasn’t myself. And even that, I don’t think it's out of hate. I don't think anyone really knows why people hurt themselves. I don’t.

“When I was twelve, my mom walked in on me hurting myself. She was supposed to be at the store, but she wasn’t. You know, it always ends up that way, doesn’t it? I’ve put her through so much pain. But when she told me that she’d never give up on me, I know she was telling the truth. And… And I hate that. I’m not getting better. I’m not going to. You know, if Dr. Koontz were here, I’m sure he’d be pointing out how good I was doing just a few… hours? Days? But you know what? The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. Bet you don’t know who said that.

“How long do you think I’m going to be in here? How long have I been in here _already?_ I wish you had a clock. Or, I wish  _ I  _ had a clock. I wish there were a clock. There should be a law that says I get a clock. I thought there was. Maybe there is. Maybe there isn’t. If they could at least turn the light off… 

“But my parents! My mom. She might be the ones to call the hospital, now that I think of it. I mean if my parents haven’t heard from me, they’d call, right? I don’t know.

“On the other hand, there’s Richie, whose parents might not ever talk to him again. You know, as loathe as I am to admit it, I think we’re more similar than not. We’ve both been the way we are since we were kids, and we’ll probably still be that way when we die. You know, for most people who are put in places like this, it’s just one dark detour in otherwise normal life. You get all kinds, drunks, addicts, people in shitty situations. They come here, get help, and go on with a referral for a therapist and a prescription for Prozac. 

“But for Richie and I, no matter how much better we get, we face the ever-looming possibility that we might relapse at any time. And that was just too much for his parents. He’s a dumb kid and he does stupid shit when he’s manic. I know he must’ve put them through a lot. You know what he told me the first night he got here? He told me he’d slept with his dad’s friend. Almost bragged about it at first. He was that way when we were first hospitalized at the same time. He was fourteen and kept telling me stories about having sex with older people. I thought it was just bullshit to try and impress me, but now, who knows. And fucking hell, he’s still only eighteen. If that family friend was close to them at all, he must’ve known how vulnerable Richie is… I don’t know. 

“In some ways, I think what my parents have had to put up with is worse. But they’ve never threatened to disown me. I guess the ways Richie hurts the people around him are just more palpable. He’s bad at wanting to get help, so people don’t believe him when he says he does. But for me… I don’t know.

“He’s been in here before. When we were kids, he started screaming in group and threw a chair at the wall. He had so much anger for such a young person. I tried to calm him down, I told him that they’d put him in isolation, but that chair went flying anyway! He was a lot calmer when he came out. Still angry, but calmer. They secluded him for forty-five minutes. The longest I’ve ever seen someone be sent to isolation was for two hours. I think it’s been longer than forty-five minutes for me. I think it’s been a lot longer. I’ve gotten meals, but I don’t remember how many. Maybe it was just one. That would have been breakfast, wouldn’t have been? That, uh, that means I’ve been here overnight. And, uh, they took me to the bathroom. But it must’ve been the nurses’ bathroom because I’d never seen it before. They wouldn’t answer any of my questions though. Didn’t show me a clock. Wouldn’t let me get a book from my room. Wouldn’t let me talk to anyone. Wouldn't let me  _see_ anyone. 

“I wonder if Richie will still be here when I get out. Maybe he got discharged. Eddie too. Bev will probably still be here. But maybe not. Maybe when they let me out, there will be a whole new set of people. But, uh…

“You know, when you’re locked up with your thoughts, you start to think about the people in your life and the conversations you’ve had with them. And it just makes you feel worse and worse. 

“But oh! You know… I… I don’t think I can stand being in here for another minute. Not… I don’t… I… I… 

“I’m thinking about that first time my mom saw me hurt myself. Not just picking at my skin, but really, really hurting myself. She took me into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and held my arms under the water for a very, very long time. I didn’t say anything, and she didn’t say anything either. We just stood there. She bandaged me up, we went back to my room and then we prayed together. When my dad got home, she didn’t tell him. I think she was scared to. My dad’s always been the leader of my family and if he knew what I’d been doing, I guess that would make it real in a way that it hadn’t been. They’d both known that there was something wrong with me since I was small, but we didn’t ever talk about it. My parents would let me go through my rituals to ease my compulsions and pretend that it was perfectly normal. We just don’t talk about things. Especially not me and my dad. We’re very different people. Very… 

“As a kid, his study was off limits. The only times I was ever in there before middle school was when I'd done something really awful and my dad had to make a big deal out of scolding me. I didn't get in trouble much, but whenever I did, he'd sit me down I'd be forced to stare him in the eyes and listen to him tell me how disappointed he was. My dad kept his study just so incredibly messy. He's a rabbi, you know, and he works out of home a lot, so he always just has a million pieces of paper scattered everywhere. That was the real punishment, I think, just having to go and be in there. All the books were out of order and there'd always be files everywhere and it hurt to even look at. It wasn’t as bad as with the painting in his office at the synagogue… but it was bad. 

“The summer I was twelve, Mom arranged a trip to Acadia National Park for a week over the summer. Said it would be good for all of us. We didn’t really take vacations, so it was something special from the start. I never asked, but I know it was because she saw what I'd done to myself, what I'd  _ been doing _ to myself. I’d been asking to go ever since ever since I was small, so my mom made it happen. You know there are over three hundred and sixty species of birds that you can see at Acadia? Scarlet Tanager included. It’s a birdwatcher’s dream. 

“Have you ever heard of John James Audubon? He was perhaps the most significant ornithologist to ever live. He was born in Haiti and moved to America in the early eighteen hundreds. He had some bad ventures, went to debtor's prison, and when he was released, he made it his goal to find and paint every bird species in America – even those who hadn't been identified yet. He painted over seven hundred species of birds in these amazing watercolors. They were all compiled in these massive books with every bird life-sized – everything from sparrows to flamingos. And these pages… they exude this resolute fierceness. Eagles with rats clutched in their talons, herons spearing fish… 

"At the school I went to, or I guess I still go to – they said I was welcome back anytime. Isn't that funny? One of the reasons I chose to go there was because they have a copy of  _ Birds of America  _ in their special collections. The first time I saw his watercolors in person was when I toured the campus. I’d seen Audubon prints before, of course, but actually having the real pages before me was almost spiritual. It was like breathing the same air as him. 

“Last year, I read a biography about him, and I learned that he shot and killed every bird he'd painted. He stuffed them and then arranged their bodies with wires to make the most naturalistic models for his paintings as possible. I don't know why I hadn't figured it out before. I just had this strange romantic idea in my head that he'd somehow been able to paint the birds as they lived. But no. They were just dead birds on strings… 

“I’m so tired. I don’t feel calmer. I don’t… they all think I did it, don’t they? The way… It’s just… What was I supposed to do? What could I have done? I’m… I’m so… 

“You know, the drawing of the rock pigeon in my bird book shows it sitting on the edge of a building in its own shit. How about that?

“As a kid, I wanted to make studying birds my job. I chose to study accounting, though. Ornithology is a hard, finicky career. Accountants always work. And now… I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look at another bird again. 

“Did I tell you what happened at Acadia? I should… I don't talk about it a lot… Don't think about it a lot… I, uh, I was so happy to go. My mom even bought me a pair of real bird watching binoculars before we left. And, uh, we stayed in this small cabin on the edge of the park. You know, I don't like staying in unfamiliar places, sleeping in beds that aren't my own, eating off of plates that I didn't wash… but it was ok. Maybe it was because I was just so excited. When we stayed there, I only made my bed once every day. Didn't worry about much of anything. There was so much to do. We only stayed for three days, and it was almost paradisal. On the last day though, things fell apart. 

"You know, I cried a lot as a little child. Whenever I saw another kid so much as squish a beetle, I’d sob. My mom said that was a good thing that it made me kind and sensitive, and I guess that’s true. I am sensitive, probably to a fault. Dad was different. On the last day in Acadia, he taught me how to fish. And, I, uh I was good at it. I think it was because I was so patient. I don't mind waiting. And you know, birdwatching requires an amazing attention span, so fishing wasn't terribly different. I can sit quietly for a very long time. But it’s not like this! It’s different when it has a purpose. It’s different when you know it has an end. Silence isn’t always peaceful.  I… I'm having a hard time keeping track of everything right now… 

"Acadia. I was talking about Acadia. You know, trips don't fix people. People don’t fix people. Sometimes even heavy drugs and therapy don’t fix people. God doesn't fix people. I wonder what my dad would have to say if he knew I said that to you. When he taught me how to fish, he showed me how to hold a fish without hurting it so you could dehook it and throw it back. But, uh, then around the fourth or fifth one I caught, my dad decided I needed to learn how to kill one. And I couldn't do it. Of course I couldn't do it! What was he expecting? He's my dad! He should've known that I couldn't do it! I know it was just a fish, I know I should've been able to, but I  _ couldn't. _

"So I, uh, I grabbed my binoculars and told him I was going to go birdwatching until we had to leave. And I did. I hadn't seen a Scarlet Tanager yet, and I didn't want to leave without seeing one. Wanted to get away from the fish. From my dad. 

"Scarlet Tanagers are rare though. Rarer in spring and summer. You know, people don't appreciate rare things. They don't even appreciate common things. People don't appreciate a day that goes by without their mind attacking them. You know, sometimes I wish I could go back years and relive my life because I'm so sure I'd do it right a second time around. I wouldn't drop out of college, I'd get a part-time job, I'd make friends. Every day that passes is another day that I will never get back. And I just keep getting older and older. Every day that passes is another day that I will someday I wish I could go back to! But it's all the same. If I could back to whatever moment I think my life started to stop, I wouldn't fix anything. I wouldn't be able to. 

“There’s an evil sort of chain of thinking I go through a lot. Part of me laments everything that is lost and then another part screams at me for feeling bad for myself. Then a third part comes along and tells me that the only way to hush the niggling little voices is to self-destruct. And it all just rushes together!

"When I set out that day looking for a Scarlet Tanager, I found a lot of other birds. Beautiful birds. Larks, chickadees, warblers, rob–  

"No Scarlet Tanagers though. I kept wondering further and further from the cabin, along the border of the park, too scared to venture far into the forest and too angry to turn back around. The sun started to sag i the sky, and I knew we'd be leaving soon and my mom would be worried if she couldn't find me, but I kept going. And then… well, I stumbled upon a Snowy Egret, just standing in the middle of a clearing, as still as can be. As rare as the Scarlet Tanager is in Acadia, the Snowy Egret is so much rarer. Maine is the very Northern edge of their breeding ground, but usually they just stay around the Southern East coast and the coast of the Gulf of Mexico – they aren't Northern birds, I mean. One day, I'd like to go somewhere tropical. That's a goal for the future. Shows intention to live. You hear that? No? Ok. But I'd like to see tropical birds. Red flamingos, blue parrots, technicolor finches… Goal for the future. Write it down. 

"But the Snowy Egret was a place to start. Not quite tropical, but not Maine-typical. I was so captivated when I saw it… I don't know what it was doing. The closest water was the pond my dad and I'd been fishing in, and it hadn't been there. So I, uh, I followed it. At twelve, it must've been nearly half my height. You know, I'd seen herons before in the rare times that my family took day trips to the coast, but I'd never seen a large bird that was so beautiful as the Snowy Egret. It's amazing how clean they are… their feathers are just absolutely spotless. And the one I saw… I don't know how to describe it. I looked between the bird and my book a million times just to confirm that it was really what I thought it was. Of course it was. There aren't many birds who rival the Snowy Egret. Pretty damn unmistakable. 

"Egrets have this amazing, sculptural ability to stay still. They're wading birds, so that's how they find their prey. They stand in the middle of a shallow body of water and just wait, not moving a muscle. And when they do walk, they take slow, calculated steps – but then when they find a fish, they strike with uncomparable ferocity, in one swift moment. But this one… it stayed still and I stayed still. We stared at each other. I didn't need my binoculars, it was right in front of me. Somehow, I hadn't spooked it all when I came across it. And eventually, it started moving. 

"So I followed it. I couldn't help myself. I forgot about the Scarlet Tanager. I forgot about my dad. I forgot about the fish. I forgot about my mom and the faucet and the bandages and praying… Those are the moment of supreme serenity that the birder lives for. The moment where you see your place in the universe, as small as it may be, and it seems that everything is just ok. It's a moment where you can just say, 'Oh. Life is just breathing. I can do that. I can breathe.' It's focus. It makes me feel closer to God. Makes me wish I hadn't said anything about Him not being able to help. Maybe that's how He does it. But those moments end. 

"I followed the bird much further than I should have. Ended up about a mile away from the cabin. And I… I followed it… 

"They’re going to hate me. I don't know what happens next. And I'm so scared. I- I- I don't… I wanted to fix things. I wanted to fix things so bad. Please listen to me.  _ Please.  _ Patrick put the bird under my mattress. I don't know how, but I know it was him. I'm sorry that I'm crying… I haven't been able to stop. I'm sorry. I am.

"But the egret. I followed it to a cemetery. I didn't even realize it at first. I thought it was just another part of the park until I saw the first grave marker. I tripped over it. When I got up, I saw the egret flying away, it's large, fantastic wings pounding against the air. Suddenly the moment was over and I was alone. I realized I didn't know my way back. And the sun was setting… I got that crazy irrational thought that I think all kids get some time in their life, though I never had before, I thought that my parents had just packed up and left me. I thought they'd be gone by the time I made it back to the cabin. The logical part of my mind knew that they hadn't, but that childish, innate fear was somehow louder. And, uh, I, I just was stuck in that cemetery. There was nothing around it… nothing at all. Looking back, I'm sure it was on the fringe of the park and really part of Seal Harbor, but it was far enough away from the town to feel like an extension of Acadia. 

"I wandered through the cemetery, trying to figure out which way I'd come from, but I just started to panic. I didn't have a phone or even a watch… And I was just so scared. So scared and so alone. And then… Then I came across a grave marker with a big, stone vase on the end of it. And I figured I'd just have to sit there, so I could collect myself. Isn't that funny? I was lost in a cemetery at the end of a giant park and all I could think about was getting a hold of my emotions. But I was a strange kid. I always was. So I went over to the vase… and I don't know why, but I looked inside. Floating at the top, in the black rainwater that had accumulated at some point, was a wing. A songbird's wing. Just about the size of my hand, torn right off its body… 

"I backed away as quick as I could, but I tripped over another marker. I stood up and turned around, and not five feet away, splayed on a flat grave was the other wing, stretched out and bloody. Something had ripped this bird out of the air and pulled its wings clean off. 

"And then suddenly, my dad came out of nowhere, saying that he'd been searching for me since I'd run off… I remember being so shocked at how relieved he sounded. He came right up to me and put his arms around me, but I just stood there so still and so scared with that image of the first wing just floating. My dad started telling me about how thankful he was that I was okay, he wasn't even scolding me… but I could hardly hear him. I pointed to the wings, but I couldn't make myself say anything. And so he looked at them. And then he looked at me. He looked at my hands. They were bloody from catching my fall, I hadn't even realized it.

"I, uh, I looked at him. I saw on his face, for just a second, that he'd thought I'd done it. He thought I'd killed a bird with my bare hands. I knew he did. He knew how odd and lonely and particular I was, so for him… The very idea that he thought that I could've done that… 

"I'm so sorry to Bill. I didn't mean to hit him. I've never hit anyone before in my life. I couldn't even kill the fish."

Stan sat down on his very white bed in his very white room. He'd thought about slamming his head against the wall, but sometimes, having a polite conversation with the camera in the corner of the room was just the easier thing to do.

"I'll be okay, though," Stan said, "I just need to breathe."

Twenty-four hours had passed since Stan had been taken to the isolation room. A day had come and gone since Patrick Hockstetter had walked into Vic's room, killed his bird, tucked it neatly into the waistband of his pants, and planted it under Stan's mattress under the guise of looking for a misplaced jacket. 

  
  



	15. Act Five, Scene One: Bad Things A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yowch. So this chapter obviously took even longer than the last to write. Even worse than that, this is really only a half chapter as I've decided to split it into two parts. But the good (?) part is that that means the chapter count had increased by one, so there's that.

#  Act Five, Scene One: Bad Things A

"Alright sweetheart, I'm going to need you to tilt your head up, ok?" 

Bill didn't say anything. Fluorescent light blurred in his eyes. 

"Did you hear me? William?"

Bill stared at the light. The light stared back.

"William? Do you know where you are?"

Bill opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He tasted blood on the back of his throat. And the light stared and stared. He didn’t dare close his eyes.

"You're on the third floor of Derry Memorial Hospital. My name is Maddy and I'm a medical technician here. Earlier tonight, someone hit you. I need to see if they broke your nose, ok? William?"

"B-B-Bill."

"I'm sorry?"

"J-just c-c-call me B-Bill. P-p-please."

"Ok, Bill." Maddy tilted his head up and looked at his blood crusted his nostrils. Bill winced when she placed her thumbs on either sides of the bridge of his nose. His nose creaked. "It's definitely broken. I’m going to need to bring in the doctor to set it.”

“I d-d-d-d–" his throat tensed. "J-just t-t-tell them that it’s n-n-not b-broken. I d-don’t need t-t-to see a d-doctor.”

“We can give you something for the pain–"

“It’s n-n-not b-b-broken.”

“Sweetheart, it is–"

“It isn’t. If y-y-you d-d-don’t t-tell anyone and I d-d-don’t t-tell anyone, th-then it isn’t.” Maddy pulled a stool next to the exam table and sat down. Bill shifted. The paper sheet under him crinkled hatefully. His ears were ringing, his fingers felt sharply cold, and his mind was rattling restlessly and untethered. Tears came and he let them fall without a fight. "I d-d-d-don't… I d-don't know what to d-do."

Maddy looked at him with wide, warm eyes. “Bill, why don’t you just let me get the doctor to fix–"

“My nose isn’t b-broken!” he yelled. Maddy startled. “Please. I know– I know h-h-how I s-sound right n-n-now. I know I d-d-don’t sound g-good.” His crying thickened. He looked down at the pair of paper pants he was wearing. They were a women’s medium. His thighs were thin, his beard was untrimmed, and he’d been wearing the damn paper clothing for far too long now. He should’ve let Audra bring him his clothes. He should’ve gotten his work done for Susan. He should’ve let Dr. Koontz transfer him to a private facility. But now, here he was with the blurry light and the smell of robitussin – so far into the rabbit’s hole that he didn’t remember what life outside of Wonderland was like anymore. Maddy’s eyes were wide and terrified and Bill was wholly responsible. And he just cried and cried. 

“Bill,” Maddy said in an impossibly soft voice. It was the voice Bill's mother used when he was a little boy. A voice that had died the day Georgie did. “They chose me to be the tech to examine you because a few days ago I helped someone else in the psychiatric ward and I guess they thought I was pretty alright at it.” She smiled. “I want you to know that it’s okay to be scared, Bill. I’m here to help you and that means that I’ve got to get your nose fixed. You understand that, right?”

Bill nodded as tears continued to track down his cheeks. Even so, his nose throbbed. 

“Can you tell me why you don’t want me to tell anyone that it’s broken?”

“H-he didn’t mean to b-break it,” Bill’s voice cracked. “He d-d-didn’t even m-mean to t-touch me. He was overwhelmed and s-scared and I th-thought that if I p-p-put my h-h-hands on h-him, I’d b-bring him back d-down.” Bill stared at his fingers. His thin fingers, with knobby knuckles. They were almost white. Hollywood had once made him tan, but Hollywood was very far away. 

“Yes, but whether he meant to or not, he still hit you.”

Bill thought about Stan and how scared he had been. He thought about their shared bathroom and how Stan’s toothbrush was still right where it'd always been. He thought about the bird. He thought about flat black eyes and Frankenstein and his little brother's armless body. 

He looked at Maddy. “St-Stan hit me. And that’s why m-my nose can’t be b-b-broken. When I g-g-go back to the seventh floor with a b-bandaged nose… Th-th-th-then–"

"Then what?"

Bill met Maddy’s eyes and knew that no matter how kind she was, no matter how honest, or motherly, or patient, he could not tell her what he needed to. He was a man who was too visibly out of reality and what he had to say was too conspiratorial and too deranged to ever be believed. And of course, how could he explain thoughts he hadn't figured out yet? There were thousands of shattered puzzle pieces, all black and unfitting. Too painful to put together. He flexed his hands until his tendons felt like they might snap. 

Patrick. It all came back to him.  _ Do you think kids are capable of murder?  _ It's what he'd meant to ask Stan the moment before the techs came in. And yet he feared he already knew the answer. No, Patrick couldn't be older than him, but it didn't change a thing. Patrick had called George by Bill's nickname for him. Had known details not made public. Had taunted Bill. The puzzle pieces were all there, as terrible and improbable as they were, they were  _ there.  _

“Have y-you ever read any of my b-b-books?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re t-treating me, so I know you have my f-file. Which means you have my f-full name. Which means you know I’m an author. A f-famous one. Unless you don’t like books. Some people just don’t like th-them. Do y-you?” 

“Yes. I like books.”

“Have you read any of m-m-mine?”

“Yes,” Maddy conceded. “A few.”

“When y-you said that it’s okay for me to be sc-scared… I think that all these years I’ve b-been writing horror, I’ve been d-doing it to keep myself safe. If I write about the boogeyman eating someone else, that means that he isn’t eating m-me.” 

"Oh." 

Bill wiped his tears away. He couldn't say why, but he knew they'd stopped. “I don’t look like my author’s photo a-anymore."

“Who do you think you look like?”

Bill caught his reflection upside down in the silver disk of Maddy’s stethoscope. His nose was swollen, his skin was red from crying, but there was something in his eyes that Bill hadn't seen in a very long time. 

“Someone the boogeyman’s been chewing on for a very long t-time.”

After getting his nose set, Maddy brought Bill back up to the seventh floor. His nostrils were packed with gauze and a strip of tape was plastered across the bridge of his nose. He'd refused anything for the pain.

The elevator opened and bellied him forth into the strange bubble of a room before the wards, the bridge between realities. He looked at the moon’s dull silver through the window like a pearl hanging off black velvet – shining and sorrowful, but light all the same. Beyond that simple panel of sealed glass was a whole world. And yet it seemed not to be there at all. Bill's nerves were alive, his muscles taut. 

“Are you alright?” Maddy asked. 

Bill gave the question some thought, but didn't answer. "Do you know w-what time it is?" 

Maddy checked her watch. “It’s just about 1:30.”

Bill stared at the black sky. “In the morning?” 

Maddy looked at him with knitted eyebrows. “Yes, Bill.”

“I just needed to be s-sure.” 

Maddy opened the door to the wards with her keycard. She held it open for him. He walked into the hall and watched as the door to the outside pushed against it's heavy hinges. Maddy took care to lock it behind her. 

She led him down the hall. When they passed the isolation room, Bill stopped and stared at the crack under the door. Stan was there. Patrick had done that too. Bill couldn't say how he knew, he just did. Stan had confronted Patrick at lunch. And for what?  _ He’s been saying things that he has no right to.  _ It all seemed so very clear now, Beverly's shift away from him, Eddie's discomfort, Richie's defensiveness. But whatever Patrick'd said, Stan hadn't believed. And so inexplicably came the bird.  A power flex. 

Bill licked his teeth. He made a point to feel the floor beneath him. Made a point to feel his clothing against his skin. Made a point to feel the low blow of the air conditioning vent above him. Made a point of

_ "Billy–" _

staying in the present. How had he done it? How had he done any of it? 

_ "I can’t go down there." _

The air conditioner. He had to focus on living air. He dug his nails into his palm. He felt the pull of unfettered fear and frustration, the pull of thread unwinding, the pull of a porous mind sagging with heavy dew. He looked at the door between him and Stan and let sharp rage pull him back into himself. He turned to Maddy.  

“The d-d-date,” he sputtered. “What’s the d-date? The w-whiteboard in the A Ward says that it’s Saturday the eleventh, but I think it’s said that for a long time now. It’s not… it’s not still Saturday, is it?”

“It’s Wednesday, May 15th.”

Wednesday, May 15th at 1:30 a.m. or so. Bill could be there. Bill could  _ stay _ there. He fought against his sticky-winged soul trying to flap its heavy wings. He couldn’t let himself–

_ “Bad things happen in the dark.”  _

Bill bit down on the inside of his cheek. Hard. Patrick had killed his brother. There it was, the puzzle on the table. Dark and bitter and impossible and real. 

He followed Maddy across to the A Ward. A nurse buzzed them in. As Bill walked into the ward, he counted his steps. Felt them. Focused on them. Clung to them. Made a point to. He forced his footfalls into reality. Something was waiting for him. Something cataclysmic. Something like fate. He had no plan. He didn’t know what was going to happen, but he knew it was going to happen very soon.

 

* * *

  
  


Beverly didn't fall asleep. She pretended, though. Every time a tech came in for rounds, she closed her eyes and forced her body to fall slack. A few times, she even kept that way after they left and made an honest shot at sleeping. It didn't come. She wasn't alone, at least not at first. There was a soft crying coming from down the hall. Eddie was her first guess, though maybe that wasn't fair. It could have been any of them, really. But eventually the crying stopped and Beverly was still awake, staring into the dark and thinking about everything and nothing all at once, somehow more alone. But somewhere in the corner of her mind, there was a growing suspicion that it was better to stay awake; vigilant. There was no security in slumber. Not on the outside and not here. 

Finally, after counting twenty-eight tech check-ins, she stood up, walked to the bathroom, and took a shower in her dress. She couldn't exactly say why and wasn't even aware of what she was doing until the first spray of water hit, but then she just stood there, her curly hair dripping straight, wet fabric plastering to her skin. And when the timer on the water stopped, she just started it again. It stopped again; she started it again. She didn't wash her hair or even reach for the soap. She just got wet. 

"Beverly?" A tech knocked on the bathroom door. "Beverly, are you okay in there?"

"I'm fine," she told the water. "I'm just fine."

"Beverly? If you don't let me see your face so I know you're okay, I'm going to have to come in. Beverly?"

The tech opened the door just as the timer stopped again. Beverly stared at him, water dribbling down the hem of her dress.

"I told you I'm fine." She started to shiver. 

The tech stared at her. "Right. Do you… do you want me to bring you a pair of scrubs?"

She nodded. Her socks squelched. 

“Can you get my toothbrush too?” After the incident the night before, The Powers That Be had decided the A Warders weren’t to be trusted with their toothbrushes anymore. Now, They had to check them in and out as needed. 

“Sure.” Bev wondered just how much the morning shift had been told. She didn’t dare ask. 

When the tech returned, he watched her brush her teeth. As she did, a cold  _ drip-drip  _ fell off her dress and onto the tile. The tech didn’t say anything. Maybe he was scared too. Or maybe he’d been on the job too long and was simply unfazed. Either way, he left her alone after she finished brushing.

She closed her eyes as she peeled her dress off, her bra, her underwear. Her body convulsed with shivers. She suddenly felt very much like the little girl she'd once been, the little girl who'd– 

She redressed in the paper scrubs before drying completely, or even mostly. Her curls started to spring dry. Her hair had become hopelessly knotted in the past few days – the hospital issued comb had lost its teeth to the curls, so she'd given up after the first day. Her Daddy's hair was pin-straight and manageable. She did not regret the missed inheritance. Beverly washed her face without looking at her reflection, though the warped plastic mirror wouldn't have much to offer anyway. Then she draped her sopping dress over the rod where a shower curtain would hang, if only they were trusted with them. 

_ Yeah, I could really go for sheet noose right now,  _ she thought and laughed, unsure where the joke began and ended. 

She ran her hands over the strange fabric of her new outfit. It felt papery but also somehow waxy. She wondered whether it was flammable and thought about Zelda Fitzgerald.  _ Good old Zeldy. Went a bit crazy, got locked up in a psych hospital by her hubby, died there in a fire. Burned right up! Burned so bad they had to identify her by her shoe. But what about you, Bevvie? Well, just take a look! You're dressed as the kindling! Crazy Bitch Chic by Kate Spade! Burnt to a Motherfucking Crisp by Alexander McQueen! What about Stanny? Did they put him in a straightjacket last night? Is it the latest summer trend?  _

She thought she might be laughing again until she felt a tear drip down her cheek then falter at her chin. But she was too proud to cry now, even alone with herself. She wiped the solitary tear before it could tumble into a walloping sob.  _ Keep it at the Movie Star cry: one tear, maybe two, no red eyes, no flushed cheeks, and most certainly no swollen blubbery lips. Keep it clean, keep it pretty, and move the fuck on.  _ She carefully dabbed her eyelashes dry, a trick she knew just as well as putting concealer on bruises  _ (L.A. Girl HD Pro – cheapest price with highest yield – color: porcelain – and for the love of God, don't forget to set with powder, dummy).  _

She fancied herself with the world she'd created for herself and Ben. Big city. Big career. Big money. And love, love, love, baby. To Chicago. To New York. Why be bound to America? Paris! Milan! And then she thought about what Dr. Koontz had told her, when she'd had her first appointment with him two days ago  _ (three? Four? Or does it all feel very slow to you? Just what is the difference between an hour and a week? How long has it been, Bevvie? You losing it?).  _ 'When a child is severely abused, they might fantasize their escape. They formulate a 'when I grow up, I want to…' to escape their misery. However, when they do in fact grow up and leave their abuser, they often find themselves ill-equipped to deal with reality. Now in a few days when you’re discharged, I want to make sure you have somewhere safe to go.' So what of her plans she’d confided to Ben? Five hundred in her savings account? Buy a bus ticket? To where? ‘Over the horizon and onwards ho’ hadn’t seemed so bad at the time. But what about a job? Could she be a shop girl if she had no place to live? Who hired the homeless? And then there was the fact that her father had joint control of her savings account. Would he drain it before she could get to it? Had he drained it already?  _ Maybe I’ll leave you a balance two cents. How ‘bout that, Bevvie? Get it? I’ll leave you my two cents and here they are–  _

After her talk with Koontz, her social worker had given her a pamphlet for every battered women’s shelter from Bangor to Portland. So that was it; shovel, grave, coffin. Goodbye childish plan of escape. How nice it had seemed. How nice it had all seemed; how easy. An amazing feat! Get a cigarette! Sneak out the door! Creep through the hall! Catch a bit of luck and the visitor’s entrance is unlocked! Throw open the window, Hell it’s unlocked too! And climb to the fucking roof–

She ached for a cigarette. A drink. Weed. Something stronger. It was her fault, wasn’t it? She’d let the bird in; somehow, somehow, somehow. And now–

_ Is every little thought minefield for you? _

_ Bosh _ . 

The voice in her head was loud and hateful. The voice of her father. She remembered something else Dr. Koontz has told her, 'There are people out there, far too many, who accuse young girls of being seductive or sexually-acting out. These are children who want to be loved, touched, and hugged.'

Beverly left her room. It was still early, the techs hadn’t started their proper wake-ups yet, but she’d rather sit in the common room alone with the distraction of the TV and cheapshit wordsearches than stay in her room. Her clothes crinkled as she walked. Once upon a time she wore so many little bracelets and necklaces that a melodic jingling would follow her around like jingling bells, and perhaps that would soon be again – her jewelry was only a few feet away, locked in a closet in a plastic bag with all her other things that had been confiscated upon her arrival in the ward. Close, yes, but at the same time it felt very far away, impossibly so. In a few days would she be jingling away to the battered women's shelter?

She was wrong to assume that she’d be the only one awake. Bill sat up on the couch, staring at the muted TV, but looking beyond it. His eyes were present, and somehow tighter than before, more present. And then there was his nose. Stan had gotten him good then. 

Under the bandage, were twin bruises butterflying across his nose from eye socket to eye socket in pretty pinks and purples. His face looked a bit like an inkblot test.  _ So what do you see? Is he a violent creeping maniac? Or is he another tired soul just trying to get by? Be careful! You can only see one at once! And what you see at first sticks! _

She looked at him; saw him. Patrick had pulled the wool over her eyes. Patrick had–  _ You missing something, Bevvie? You missing a lot? _ Bill was a man she'd fallen into fast friendship with, then fallen into even faster mistrust. His eyes were still vacant and she doubted very much that he'd noticed her presence. She considered her fears, considered the very real edge of panic that Patrick had implanted in her. But now, when she looked at Bill, she saw a man who, like her, had once been a child who simply wanted to be loved. The inkblot had spoken. 

She sat down next to him.

She stared at the television too, with eyes as unseeing as his. The Cartoons were on (their right of capitalization seemed suddenly necessary to her, for although each generation has its  _ Spongebob Squarepants  _ or its  _ Huckleberry Hound,  _ it maintains as a general principle of the universe that so long as there are children and there are TV sets, there will be The Cartoons).

She turned to him and said, "Hi."

All at once, Bill broke his gaze with whatever invisible thing had caught it in the first place. He picked up the remote and turned off The Cartoons. They sat for awhile longer in extended silence. Side by side, pale-faced, ginger-mopped, blue-paper-uniformed dolls, more alike than different.

Bill's hair was wet. He'd taken a shower too, then. More than that, he wasn't wearing a long sleeved shirt under his scrub top today. His scars were on display for the very first time, large and knotting and purple. She looked at them for a moment, but said nothing. A strange solace fell over them both, but it was okay. They could have this. They could sit together and pretend they lived in a vacuum. They could sit in the eye of the hurricane and act like the storm was over. 

_He wants to fuck you, he wants to fuck you, he wants to do violent things–_ Her body stiffened. Something had happened, something had happened, something had happened to her in here and Bill had nothing to do with it. What did she remember from the day she'd been sick? Not much. But she _had_ been sick, awfully so. More than that, she'd been the _only_ one to be sick. How? They ate the same food, and if it were a bug how could no one else have gotten it when they lived in such close quarters? Her memory felt just as close as her jingling jewelry, and just as far away too. _You know, Bevvie. Don't you remember screaming?_ She did and she didn't. She could feel the winds of the eyewall coming closer. It was too late to take shelter, wasn't it?

Richie and Eddie came out into the common room together. Eddie sat down, Richie did not.

Eddie looked at Bill. "Your nose–"

"Where's Stan?" Richie cut him off. His tone was sharp and on edge, but somehow wavering too. His eyes were bloodshot. He'd been the crier, then. In fact, he looked just about ready to go another round. 

Beverly looked at Bill. 

"I-Isolation," Bill said.

Richie started to cry again.

"It's ok, Richie," Eddie said weakly. "It's gonna be ok."

"Ok?" Richie spat. "It's not fucking ok! Are you fucking serious?"

"Stan–"

"Don't, Eddie. Just don't, ok? I'm so– God! How could... How could Stan do something like that? I thought I knew him. You know that? I really fucking thought I knew what kind of person he was."

"Richie–"

"But you don't know people in here." Richie looked around the room with wild eyes. "It's easy to forget what normal people are like in a place like this."

"What do you mean?"

"I  _ mean  _ that you should've fucking left."

"What–"

"You had the chance! They were working on your fucking discharge papers! I mean for fuck's sake Eddie! This isn't fucking summer camp! You were right when you thought they made a mistake in admitting you. And you should have fucking left."

Beverly caught Eddie in the corner of her eye scratching at his hands. His own tears were beginning to fall.

"Don't talk to him like that," she snapped.

Richie narrowed his eyes at her. He paced up and down the room. Hot tears fogged up his glasses, but he refused to take them off, even as the lenses grew wet and sticky.  _ Gale force winds picking up, pressure dropping. _

Beverly carefully took Eddie's hands before he could do much damage. 

"Don't mind him, Eddie," she whispered. "Don't mind him at all."

Eddie turned to her. "What are we doing, Bev? Bill? Richie cried himself to sleep last night… and– and– and  _ Stan–" _ Eddie's breathing picked up. "You guys are the first friends I've ever had. I know how pitiful that sounds, but it's true and I– I– I keep thinking about that bird and how could Stan do something like that–"

"Stop," Bill said firmly. 

Richie stopped his pacing. He collapsed in the chair next to them and buried his head in his hands.

A tech came around and to take their vitals. Beverly was quite shocked to find that her heart was still beating. As the tech took her blood pressure, all she could her was a  _ ba-bum ba-bum ba-bum  _ in her ears. The room was silent, even Richie's weeping had ceased. Beverly was half expecting for Eddie to try and comfort him again, but he made no move to. After the tech finished with Beverly, he moved on to Bill, then Eddie, then Richie. 

Richie refused the blood pressure cuff and crossed his arms. "Why is Stan still in isolation?"

"It's a complicated situation, and you should know by now that we can't tell you about other patients' treatment plans," the tech answered. "Now please just let me take your blood pressure."

"Treatment plan? You call locking him up in a little room by himself a 'treatment plan'?" 

Beverly's heart grew louder. Stan. The bird. Showering in her dress. Throwing up. A day gone from her memory. Patrick.  _ Ba-bum, ba-bum.  _ She didn't know what to think, much less what to say. She found herself looking to Bill.  _ Where do we go from here? By God, where do we  _ go? _ Into the hurricane, Bevvie.  _

The tech grabbed Richie's arm and forced his sleeve up. Richie glared at him as the blood pressure cuff tightened around his arm. 

Richie turned to the tech. "I'm going to fucking report you, you know that? You and your behemoth friends on the night shift. They fucking laughed at Stan before they even found anything and now you've left him in there overnight. If you don't think I'm going to tell Dr. Koontz and every fucking social worker who will listen what pieces of shit you are, you are sorely fucking mistaken!" 

The tech stared at Richie. "Social workers aren't coming in today. Neither is Koontz. All activities are cancelled until further notice. You'll be eating breakfast in here."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Richie spat. The tech finished his job and walked away. "That's against our rights!" Richie yelled after him. "Hey you facist piece of shit, that's against our fucking rights!"

"R-Richie, you need to c-calm down." When Bill spoke, they all listened. Somehow he had regained his air of authority. Everything that Patrick had said about him seemed so far behind them now. Even his stutter had calmed. "I n-need you all to listen."

Beverly looked at Richie and Eddie. Eddie's hands were still in her own, but his anxiety seemed to have curbed, even if just a little. And for Richie, well he was listening to Bill, for now that was the most any of them could ask for. His hands were clutched in his hair, as if by doing this he could somehow get his brain to stop and focus. 

"What is it, Bill?" Beverly asked. She too felt something inside her shift. Something like power.

"Stan d-didn't do it. P-Patrick put the bird under h-his bed and th-then made the anonymous report. He did it b-because St-Stan figured out what he was d-doing."

"What are you talking about?" Richie asked.

Bill stared him down. "I know P-Patrick was saying things t-to you and I know y-you believed him, all of you, at least on s-some l-level." 

Beverly felt a sudden rush of shame, a sudden rush of need to defend herself too. Just the morning before, she'd been gathered with Richie and Eddie in this very room, discussing Bill. But they hadn't believed what Patrick had said, at least not fully, not her and Eddie anyway. Stan had been the only one to defend him, though. And now he was gone. Was Bill right that he hadn't done it?

"Why were you staring at them?" Richie asked. 

"What d-do you mean?"

"Bev and Eddie. The past few days you were staring at them. And the other day, when Eddie was doing his homework–"

"Don't talk for me," Eddie said. He clutched his inhaler but did not use it. "You're the one who pushed us all into believing what Patrick said."

"And why would Patrick say those things in the first place? You gonna answer that one for us, Big Bill? Huh? Why would he do any of this? I've seen fucked up people in places like this, people who scream at the walls and attack staff members and sexually harass other patients, but Patrick seems to be only after you. He didn't say anything about anyone else, and now you claim that he went after Stan because of you. Why?"

"I c-can't tell you."

"Then where does that leave us?" Richie said. His hand tightened in his hair. "Because now Stan's all locked up in isolation. That place isn't nice. I've been put in there before, only for an hour, but it was enough for me to hate it. Stan's been in there overnight for something you say he didn't even do, and I don't think they've got plans to let him out anytime soon. Meanwhile, Patrick's all la-de-fucking-da over in B Ward, and now they're saying that they're just gonna keep us cooped up in our ward until 'further notice'?"

The room fell to silence. Beverly looked over the corner to the nurses' station. Had they heard everything they'd said? Did it matter? The morning shift was normally nice. Despite what Richie had screamed to the tech, they weren't the people he made them out to be. So why weren't they tell them anything? The nurse on duty caught her staring and turned away. Beverly sucked in a breath. 

"The cameras," she said, her voice a protective whisper. She turned the T.V. back on, unmuted it, and beckoned her friends closer. "Someone would've reviewed the security cameras last night, right? I mean after what happened, how could they not?"

"Th-then they would've seen that it w-wasn't Stan."

"And that means someone fucked up," Beverly continued. "If you're right, Bill, and I'm really starting to think that you are, then they have video of Patrick in our ward, which means someone brought him in here."

"Then why don't they let Stan out?" Eddie asked. "I mean if they know he didn't do it… And why not have our social workers or psychiatrist come in?"

"They're c-covering something up," Bill answered. "Beverly's right. S-Someone fucked up by giving Patrick the opportunity to do what he d-did. And j-just a few days after B-Beverly made it to the roof. M-Maybe they've got other things on camera."

"They're scared," Beverly whispered. What could scare hospital admins enough to put everything on hold? A patient making his way into a female patient's room? The female patient screaming as he got on top of her? Hospital workers covering it up? Drugging her?  _ I told you, Bevvie. I told you that you'd end up Juniper way. You remember now?  _ Her father's belt on her ass, the belt around her neck, Patrick's hands up her dress. 

“What do we do?” Eddie asked. "I mean, what can we do? I mean if… If there's a fucking conspiracy going on, what the hell can we do?"

Bill didn't answer. Beverly was scared that he didn't have one. But still there was something bright and commanding in his eyes. His eyes that looked so much like her own. She had power in hers too. 

She looked at Eddie and answered. “We make some phone calls.”

  
  



	16. Act Five, Scene Two: Bad Things B

#  Act Five, Scene Two: Bad Things B

Ben’s mom was at work. He hadn’t left the house yet today and didn’t have any plan to until it was time to visit Bev in the hospital. The past few days had been the same. There wasn’t much for him in Derry. His flight back to California was leaving tomorrow morning. He was ready to get back to school, to get back to a sense of normalcy, but it was still bittersweet. He knew that tonight would be the last time he saw Bev for what might be a good long time. He swallowed his antidepressant dry.

Yesterday he went out and bought a notebook full of gridded paper, a few mechanical pencils, and just the kind of ruler he liked – a metal one with cork on the bottom to keep it from slipping against paper. He'd already filled the notebook. He held it by its spiral spine and ran his thumb across the ends of the pages. Two-point street views, architectural features, and interiors fanned by. It was a tight little project, a whole building planned out in that 79 cent notebook. He’d make some models next and if those played well, he might very well just make it a project for one of his courses.

He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. He pulled out milk, butter, cheese, fatback bacon – his mom had bought that special for him. He closed the fridge slow enough to see the lights go off inside before it shut. Then he looked at what he had taken out for a good long while, really staring it all down. He opened the fridge again. Put back the milk and the butter and the cheese and the fatback bacon. He closed the fridge again, this time just hard enough for its contents to shudder. Then he opened it again. Milk. Butter. Cheese. Fatback bacon. Onto the counter for another staring contest. Back into the fridge – door shut tight and sure. 

He sat down on the kitchen floor and tried to find some meaning in the pattern on the linoleum. He found none. He closed his eyes, breathed, and stood back up. He skipped the fridge and chose the heel slice from the loaf of rye bread he'd insisted on buying instead of Wonder Bread. He toasted it and topped it with a thin layer of peanut butter and banana slices. He fixed himself a nice tall glass of ice water too. There is nothing in this world quite like a tall glass of ice water to make a man feel pure and new. He drank it down slowly and ate even slower. He refilled his glass and wondered how his friends in the hospital were. Wondered how Bev was. 

He didn't have to wonder long. 

His phone rang next to him. It was the hospital’s number. He answered on the first ring. 

“Hello? Bev?”

There was no answer, just a quiet breathing on the other line. 

“Bev, are you there? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she answered, but he couldn’t get a clear read. 

“Yes you’re there or yes you’re okay?” He was expecting to her to laugh at that; she didn’t. “You are okay, aren’t you?”

"What am I gonna do when I get out of here?"

"You're going to get out of Derry and find a job. Maybe move in with your aunt if you have to.”

“That’s not what I mean. Or I guess it is, a little bit. But what am I going to  _ do?” _

“Do?” Ben swallowed. He wasn’t sure what she meant by it in the least. A part of him felt a rush of inadequacy – surely Beverly Marsh deserves someone who could understand her innately. Ben stared at his glass of water. It was starting to perspire. 

“Ben, I'm not okay."

"What… what happened? Are they trying to extend your stay again?"

"No. It's Stan. And Bill. And all of us really."

"Bev, what happened?" Ben repeated. He raked his fingers through his hair. His elbow knocked over his glass of ice water. It shattered against the linoleum but he hardly noticed.

"I–” Bev’s voice was tight. “Patrick has been… antagonizing us. I guess that’s the right word. Or at least the closest to the right word.”

“What did he do? Did he hurt you?”

The line was silent entirely too long. When Beverly finally answered, she simply said, "Yes." 

"What did he do? What can I do? Do… do you need me to report something? I can talk to a nurse there or I can call the police or–"

"Ben. It's ok. It's going to be ok."

"Bev, you've got me worried. Can't you tell me what's going on?"

"We need you to find Stan's parents. Bill says his dad is a rabbi at Temple Israel. I think it's on Costello Avenue, but I'm not sure."

"What's his dad's name?"

"I'm not sure. Just tell whoever's there that you need to talk to the rabbi about his son."

"What if he isn't there?"

"Then you've got to find another way to get a message out to him. Tell him that last night Stan was taken to isolation room and none of us have heard from him since. We need him to call the hospital and demand to speak to Stan. Get him and Stan's mom to come to the hospital if you can. Tell them to get a lawyer."

"Bev… I don't understand. Why is Stan in isolation? Do they really need a lawyer? And what did Patrick do to you?”

“Ben, I’m going to be out of here in a few days, no matter what happens. And when I’m out, I’ll tell you everything.”

“Bev–"

"I love you, Ben. I know it's probably wrong for me to say that, but I do. I love who you are."

Outside it started to rain. 

* * *

  
  


Mike had a lot on his plate. It was his second morning waking up in his own bed since being discharged from Derry Memorial, but things were far from getting back to normal. He hadn't gone back to work yet. Yesterday he called in and told them that he simply wasn't ready. They’d told him that was just fine and to take as much time as he needed. Part of him resented that. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be ready. Besides, he hadn't yet been able to afford himself the luxury of recuperation.  

Perry from the NAACP sat across from him at his kitchen table. It was still early, hell it was still before eight, his grandfather was still asleep, but nevertheless Mike sat up with Perry, a pile of papers between them; a whole lot of work. Work. There it was, in 12 pt. double spaced, Times New Roman, the criminal charges against Butch Bowers and the suit against the Derry Police department that very well might just bankrupt the whole town. 

"Mike?"

"Sorry, I was just…" Just what? Lost in his own head? 

"It's fine, Mike. Did you hear what I said about Butch?"

"Right. Butch." Mike rubbed his temples. "I must've missed it."

Perry gave him a look of concern. "Have you been sleeping alright?"

"Have I been sleeping alright? No I haven't been sleeping alright. I've barely been sleeping at all and when I do sleep I dream about fire and– and– I’ve been taking fucking sleeping pills and they have done any good at all. I’m dead fucking weight."

"Do you want to take a break? I can come back in a few hours–"

"No," Mike snapped. "Sorry. Let's just get as much sorted now as we can, ok? Can you repeat what you said about Bowers?”

"The D.A. offered him a deal in exchange for a guilty plea on all charges from that night. He took it. The case won't be going to trial."

"What was the deal?"

"Two years prison. Five probation."

"Two years," Mike repeated. "Two years," he said it again. Two years. It swirled around his brain. "He stormed my house with a torch and a gun, tried to kill me, tried to kill my grandfather and he gets two years? How much of that will he actually serve?"

Perry sucked in a breath, but didn’t answer.

"What about my parents? He confessed–"

"We're pursuing charges, but we've got to gather sufficient evidence. That means opening sealed files, testimonies from officials, the fire marshall, medical examiners, possible exhumation of remains… We're talking years of work before we can bring the case to the D.A. We'll support you the whole way of course, but I'm letting you know now, Mike, this isn't going to be an easy road for you."

"Exhumation?" In that moment, Mike was sure that if his chest were to be cut open, the cavity between his lungs would empty except for a ball of mercury where his heart should have been, slowly dripping poison into his veins. Dreams about fire and screaming and the smell of charred flesh. What did he remember of his parents last day on Earth? What did he remember of them at all? He remembered his mother's smiles that were made only more sweet by their seldomness. He remembered his father holding him in his lap and letting him steer the tractor. The arms that had once held him were now burnt bone. Would the few good memories of his parents, as faded and marred by time as they were, be replaced completely by rot and decay if the bodies were to be exhumed? For years after the fire, all he could think of when he heard their names were their screams. Already it had started again. Could he relive that night? Give a testimony? And somehow more than that, was there anyway that he couldn’t? Mike stood on shaky feet. He grabbed his keys and cellphone.  

"Mike–"

“I’m going to take a drive,” he said in a watery voice. He cleared his throat; squared his shoulders. “I’ll pick us up some breakfast. We’ll probably be at this most of the day, huh? And I, uh, I don’t feel much like cooking. Could– would you mind getting Grandpa up at nine? It’s– I try to keep him on a schedule. Helps with the Alzheimer’s.”

“Sure, Mike. Take as long as you need, ok?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Mike turned and left. He got in his car and drove. He made it to the edge of the property before he fell apart. He pulled over, cut the ignition, and cried. Tears of loss came bitter and unrelenting, painful in his stomach and chest. His limbs felt all at once too heavy to move and too light to exist, and something in his core ached so terribly that he doubled over in the driver's seat. 

Mike saw his life refracted in broken glass; shattered and fractured with repeating patterns of loss and violence and so much pain that Mike didn't know what to do with it all. I kill your nigger parents! I kill your nigger dog! Butch Bowers. Two years! He'd be serving it in Shawshank, surely. That was the sole comfort of it all. A dirty cop behind bars wouldn't do so well. An image of Butch choked out in the showers came to him, dirty and ugly and dead. It was no comfort to him, none at all. Being locked away with Henry hadn’t helped. 

Mike pulled himself together and drove into town. Hard times. They might never pass, but they would fade slowly into the background. They had before and they would again. Cracked but not broken. The great liberty bell tapping. It’s the kind of guy he was: optimistic with a belief in the presence and power of goodness in and of itself. So why couldn’t he make himself feel that way now? His sense of self slipped through his hands like ash. The past few days had seemed so long and so damming that he could hardly remember how he’d felt before it all. The memory of himself was so far behind that it hardly seemed real anymore. But without it, who was he? The Hanlon family was fading fast into nothing. His parents dead, his grandfather’s mind in decay, and now him – whoever the hell he was. Certainly the person he thought he was had been left behind in the hospital. He thought that coming home would make him himself again, but now he only found himself slipping further into the pit of despair. Now here he was, no more than a photo left on the moon, bleached by sunlight into oblivion. A memory of a memory – soon to be nothing. Maybe Butch Bowers had gotten what he wanted after all.

Mike stopped in front of a coffee shop on the corner of Center and Main. He looked at himself in the rear view mirror before he got out. He looked just fine. In fact, there was no sign that he’d been crying at all. It felt terribly out of place, terribly wrong. What was the purpose of his pain if there was nothing to show of it? The whites of his eyes were just as clear as ever. He stared at his reflection and saw his grandfather’s eyes, his father’s eyes, and finally his own. 

After the fire, Mike’d moved in with his grandparents. The room they’d fixed up for him, the room he still slept in now, had been his father’s childhood bedroom. He spent day and night in that room, crippled by grief. After a week, his grandfather gave him a talk. 

‘This world is going to kick you and it’s going to kick hard,’ he’d said. ‘You can lie down and take it, or you can use it. Do you understand what I mean? You can’t make the pain go away. There isn’t a way to do that, Mike. When pain comes to us, it stays with us. I wish to God you didn’t have to know that yet, but I guess we all got to learn sometimes. Now listen: there’s no room in this world for useless pain. You can live your whole life with pain but it doesn’t mean a damn thing if you don’t make anything of it. Do you understand that?’

Mike hadn’t. Still, he isolated his pain, tucked it away, and lived most of his life just like that. But he understood now. His life had been defined by loss, and only now was there a way to give it a purpose. 

He got out of his car and fed a couple of quarters to the meter. 

“Mike?” 

Mike turned around and found himself face to face with none other than Victor Criss. His face was bruised and he was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing when Mike’d seen him last, though they were much dirtier now.

“They discharged you?” Mike asked, even though it felt like a very stupid question. Vic was carrying a plastic bag with ‘DERRY MEMORIAL HOSPITAL’ printed in block letters. Still, Mike could hardly believe it. 

“Discharged?” Vic echoed. 

“They let you out of the hospital.”

“Oh. I guess they did.”

“Are you okay? What happened to your face?”

“My face?” 

“It’s bruised.”

Vic dropped his bag and ran his hands across his face. He winced at his own touch.

“Where… where are you staying?” Mike felt the words fall from his lips. 

“I’m hungry.”

“Vic, where are you staying?”

“Staying?”

“Are you out here on your own?” Mike looked up and down the sidewalk but didn’t see anyone that looked like they were with Vic. “Are you by yourself?”

Vic frowned. “They said I couldn’t stay during the day. I only get to be there during the night.”

“What do you mean? Where do you only get to be during the night?”

“The shelter.”

“The homeless shelter?”

Vic frowned and slowly nodded. “It’s not nice like the hospital."

Mike picked up his bag and handed it back to him. A fat raindrop landed on his arm. A few more drops fell and Mike knew that it’d be pouring soon. He thought about his job and the lawsuit and his grandfather and all his other responsibilities that were already stacked so high they swayed. But surrounded by a gray sky and purple clouds, he knew that he’d have to make a decision. 

“Come on,” Mike put a hand on Vic’s shoulder and led him to his truck just as the sky opened up. Mike’s shirt was nearly completely soaked by the time he was back in the driver’s seat. Vic splayed his palms against the window. He stared at the rain hitting the glass with wondrous, glittering eyes. 

Mike couldn’t remember the last time it rained so hard in Derry, and so quickly too. The early morning had been clear. Whatever storm system was upon them had come in with no warning. The morning sun was hidden deep behind clouds and sheets of rain hit the road, already forming pools on both shoulders. A car sped by and a white-crested wave crashed against a storm drain. Mike knew better than to try and drive in what was quickly shaping up to be a flash flood. 

“What do birds do when it rains this hard?” Vic asked. 

Mike let out a giddy laugh. 

“Why are you laughing?”

“It’s just that I didn’t expect you to say that, is all.”

“There was a bird in the hospital. It wasn’t a real bird though.”

Mike frowned. “When did the hospital let you leave?” He thought that even someone like Vic would take offense if the question was a ‘why.’

“I don’t know. When did they let you leave? I left after you.”

“Right.”

“You left and then there was the bird and then Patrick made it go away.”

Mike rubbed his neck. The rain wasn’t showing signs of letting up. In fact, it was only getting worse. 

“What kind of bird goes  _ tu-whit, tu-whoo? _ ” Vic asked. When Mike didn’t answer, he made the noise again.  _ Tu-whit, tu-whoo.  _ It rubbed Mike the wrong way.

Mike hadn’t called the hospital about Patrick yet. After the calm of his first night home, he’d been too caught up in his own turmoil to make the call, but now with Vic sitting right next to him, he was confronted with the memory of the sharp end of a toothbrush shiv trailing against his hip bone. The thought of Patrick sat heavy in the pit of his stomach. His friends were in there with him. Yes, they were friends. Mike had been trying to avoid it, to run from the idea, but he had made friends inside the walls of a psych ward. The way Patrick had told him he’d made the toothbrush — no, more than that, had enjoyed making it — had he been planning something? He’d given one to Henry. Was that how Patrick operated, to egg on others in hopes of casual chaos? Or was it something more?

A bolt of lightning, fat and electric, cracked through the sky. Mike flinched.

“Before you left… was everything ok?” Mike asked.

“Where’d I leave?”

“The hospital.”

“Oh yeah.” Vic stared beyond the rain-peppered windshield. “It’s awful dark, Mike. We shouldn’t drive anywhere in the dark.”

“Vic, was everything ok in the hospital? How was everyone?”

“It rained a lot in Vietnam.”

Mike’s phone rang. Vic turned back to the window and let out another _ tu-whit, tu-whoo.  _ Mike answered his phone.

“Hello?” 

“M-M-M—“

“Bill?”

“Y-yeah. B-Bev gave me your n-number. I h-hope you d-don’t mind.”

“Are you guys okay? Jesus. I was– I’ve got Vic in my car.”

“V-Vic?”

“He was on the street. Says he’s staying at a homeless shelter. I, uh, I was asking him if you all were ok, but he just keeps babbling about a bird–"

“A bird? What d-do you m-mean?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand half of what he says,” Mike looked over to Vic who seemed to have retreated into his own world. “But you’re all okay? Nothing has happened?”

“W-What did Vic s-say about a bird?”

“Bill–"

“Mike, it’s i-i-important.” 

“He said that he saw a bird but it wasn’t real. You know how he is.”

“S-saw one in the h-h-hospital?”

“Yes. He said Patrick made it go away. Listen, I need to warn you–“

“We a-aren’t okay. Last n-night, the techs s-searched Stan and I’s room. Patrick st-stabbed a bird with a toothbrush and shoved it under Stan’s m-mattress. They th-thought Stan did it, b-b-but I sw-swear to y-you it was Patrick. Stan f-freaked out and hit me b-by accident. They p-put him in isolation–”

Mike’s heart stopped. “I– This is my fault. Fuck. I saw– I knew Patrick was sharpening toothbrushes. He gave one to Henry the day I was leaving, and I swear I was going to tell someone, I almost told you, but I was sure they’d say I made it and use it as an excuse to keep me there. I meant to call yesterday–”

“I w-wish you h-had.”

“Bill, I’m so sorry. Put a nurse on the phone, I’ll explain what happened.”

“I th-think they already know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do y-you r-remember the last c-conversation we had? You w-were paranoid about y-your discharge. You s-said you thought you were going crazy. And I t-told you th-that you weren’t, that even th-though it seemed the system in h-here was against you, th-that p-paranoia was j-just a n-natural response to the h-hospital environment.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m s-saying that we need your help.” 

Mike swallowed. He felt the world around him. He looked at Vic and Vic looked right back.

"M-Mike? You still th-there? The admin h-have put the w-wards on l-lockdown. We're lucky they h-haven't turned off the ph-phones yet.”

“I’m here.”

“Will you h-help us?”

“Yeah. Whatever you need, I’ll do.”

"B-Beverly g-got Ben to find Stan's p-parents to tell them he's b-been in isolation. F-From what St-Stan's told me about his f-folks, I'm sure they'll h-have a lawyer threatening to sue b-by the end of the day. The hospital w-will have to release Stan and th-then they'll claim that on further investigation, th-they've r-realized it was really P-Patrick and they'll ship him off to a st-state mental hospital. B-Bev thinks it'll work."

"But you don't. You wouldn't be calling me otherwise."

"Stan's parents m-might get a good lawyer, b-but the hospital w-will have b-better ones. They'll say that the c-cameras weren't working whenever Stan w-was supposed to have killed the b-bird and that it d-doesn't matter anyway b-because he hit another patient. They'll say the only r-reason they've k-kept the social w-workers and psychiatrists away is s-so they can reassess their security. They'll say w-whatever the hell w-will make them n-not liable."

"Then what are we going to do?"

"You're g-going to call the N-National Enquirer and a-any other t-tabloid that will l-listen and tell them that three m-months ago, Audra Philips' f-fiance, author W-William Denbrough, h-had a n-nervous breakdown and has been a psychiatric p-patient at Derry Memorial H-Hospital ever since."

"William Denbrough…"

"That's m-me, Mike.”

"You… but you're… I have a first edition copy of Joanna. Hell, I must've read it thirty times. And the library has twenty copies of The Black Rapids and they're still almost always out on loan. I didn't even know you were from Derry. Your author's photo–"

"I know. A f-few people thought I l-looked a little familiar the f-first f-few weeks I was h-hospitalized. In a way I'm g-glad I'm not recognizable. If anyone found out I w-was here, it m-might ruin my career and h-hurt the p-p-people I love… h-h-hurt the m-memory of s-someone I l-loved. Have you ever l-lost anyone, M-Mike?"

"Yes," Mike said thinly.

"Then y-you know w-what it means to want t-to protect them, even after y-you've lost them."

Mike sat silent for a few seconds. Beside him, Vic started to _ tu-whit _ again. "Why do you want me to call a bunch of hack journalists then? If you don't want anyone to know you're there, why the hell are you going to be the one to let everyone know? How is that going to do you any good?"

"Patrick killed my brother."

"Bill–"

"You're the f-first one I've t-told, but I know it's t-true. He knew I w-was in here. Somehow he knew. I d-don't know what his plan was or is, b-but everything has aligned for him. Whatever comes next, I n-need the upper hand."

"How is conducting a media circus having the upper hand? Why don't you just call the police?"

"I c-can't very w-well call 911 f-from inside a psych ward, and n-none of this will s-sound any saner c-coming from you. So w-we bring in the only m-media sc-scummy enough to st-stake out a h-hospital and s-sell them a g-g-good enough story to b-bring their eyes on us.  I've thought about it and th-this is all we can do. I know who I am and I know h-how t-to sell a fucking story. S-since I've b-been in here, I've l-lost who I was on the outside, and if doing this m-means th-that it's gone forever, th-that should show you h-how serious I am. 

"Whatever is g-going to happen is going to happen no m-matter what. The only thing l-left to control w-what the world knows. The hospital won't b-be able to keep c-covering up what they've b-been covering up with a s-swarm outside. If th-the only thing to c-come of this is t-to g-get Stan out of that f-f-fucking room, then it w-will b-be worth it. 

"My entire l-life s-since I lost Georgie h-has b-been defined by p-pain so powerful my b-brain m-made me nearly f-forget it, b-but it's been here all along, h-haunting me at every t-turn. All this p-pain has to end. So please, Mike. P-please make the c-calls." 

Mike came back to himself. He came back to who he was, who he had been, and who he would always be. Not his father and not his grandfather, but himself. He knew exactly who he was. 

"Ok, Bill. I'll do it." 

  
  
  



	17. Act Five, Scene Three: Bad Things C

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie is bad at plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is 9865432 years late and I'm so sorry.

#  Act Five, Scene Three: Bad Things C

Richie had roaches.

Once in high school, he had a big blowout fight with his folks. He can't remember what caused it now, but it certainly had felt like a big deal at the time. It must've been about something he'd done, something he'd said, something he'd stolen, he'd been the aggregator, that was undeniable. But now,  _ now,  _ it's nothing more than past actions and forgotten pains. The specifics are gone from his memory (and his parents' memory too, for that matter) but just like so many frivolous, forgotten fights, the aftermath far eclipsed whatever had caused it. His dad screamed himself hoarse while his mom just sat there and cried. Richie remembers how she looked, with stickied eyelashes and a trail of drool escaping her lips as she sobbed so heavily that she couldn't keep her mouth shut. Went stopped his yelling long enough to get her a tissue. She made a noise like a wet fart into it.

Richie'd pitied her.

Not for what he'd done, but for how she'd looked – so ugly and fat-lipped and unkempt.

Roaches.

He'd been manic then. Really, he'd been manic every time he made his mother lose her dignity in front of him. All the while as she cried and his father screamed, he just stood in front of them with his arms crossed and his brow mean, thinking about just how glad he was that he wasn't one of the plain normal people.  _ He  _ was better; he had  _ evolved.  _ He decided then that he had outgrown his parents.

That night, he slammed the door in his mother's wet face. He marched right out of his parents' house without stopping to think to pack so much as his wallet or phone. He forgot to put on shoes too, but rather than face the embarrassment of having to go back and retrieve them, he walked barefoot through the streets in his self-exile, just as a young Bill Denbrough had once done, though the circumstances were far different. He didn't have a plan, but Hell, he didn't need one because he was Richie fucking Tozier and good things were due to him. 

At daybreak, he showed up at Moose Sandler's house on the outskirts of town. Richie didn't know him too well but they'd partied together a few times and his tattoo was still fresh and raw and occasionally oozing. He stood at Moose's door, sopping wet and smelling of algae. 

"I've just been in the Kenduskeag," Richie announced.

"What? The stream?" Moose asked. He was in a bathrobe and boxers, a bowl of cereal in his hands. He spoke in between spoonfuls of Cap’n Crunch. 

"Yeah, the stream. I walked past the dump where they found that kid's body in the fridge a few years back, George Whaz-His-Name. Then I walked through the Barrens, and you know what? The wind spoke to me there, just really fucking  _ spoke  _ to me. It told me all its secrets, said I was the only one who could understand them. So I followed the wind and she led me to the river. I walked right in until it got up to my chin and I just stood there, feeling the water – no! – feeling the  _ universe  _ moving around me. And God! No really,  _ God!  _ God is the universe and the water and the wind and me–"

"You trippin', man?" Milk dribbled down Moose’s chin. 

Richie stopped. No. He hadn't been trippin'. In fact, at that point in his life, he had yet to even smoke weed, much less anything psychedelic.

"Yeah, man. Mushrooms, acid, MDMA too."

"Wicked."

So Richie staggered into Moose's house, where parents never seemed to be around. Ordinarily, Moose might not have taken him in, but Richie knew that he'd just lost one of his friends in a drunken car wreck, or at least Richie'd heard the friend was just as well as dead. Whatever it was, it almost certainly was the reason Moose welcomed him. So Richie came in and stayed. 

He was surprised to find that despite being a stoner burnout, Moose's house was just as clean as it could be. There wasn't a single sign of any of his semi-notorious weekend ragers. The place was spick-fucking-span. The trash can had a fresh bag, the counters were grease free, and there wasn't a stray pizza box in sight. But there were roaches. When Richie finally crashed on the couch, right as he was about to close his eyes, he caught sight of a fat, black roach scuttering across the ceiling. A second roach clicked across the floor. A third danced on the walls.

Moose chased them away with a can of Raid. They ran under the seam where the floor met the wall, unharmed. Moose explained that he had just about tried everything to get rid of them, from poison to glue traps to a "bullshit supersonic bug brain frier" he'd bought off Amazon. He said his folks had even sprung for the exterminator to come and put a circus tent around their house, but even the gas hadn't gotten them all. 

"Some houses just get roaches," Moose said, "and sometimes you just gotta live with the roaches you have."

A day later, Richie really did try MDMA. A day after that, Moose showed him how to huff turpentine. A day after that, Moose stuck his dick down Richie's throat and threatened to kill him if he told anyone. And so Richie went home. His parents embraced him with open arms and relieved beautiful tears. 

Richie never forgot about the roaches, though. There was something about the way Moose had talked about them that always stuck with Richie.

He understood it now. Richie saw the present through his own tear-stickied eyelashes. A Ward. Seventh floor. Derry Memorial Hospital. Nighttime. Hard to say exactly when. Eddie sat across the room from him, just about as far away as he could be. Bill and Bev sat with him. 

Their breakfasts had been delivered to them, just as the tech had promised. The rest of their meals, too. No sign of the social workers. No sign of Koontz. The already small world of the seventh floor contracted tight around them. Richie could feel it, just as he once had felt the universe singing and swaying around him, he could feel the walls closing in around the four of them, pushing them closer and closer together – and closer and closer towards some _ thing. _

Bev seemed to have figured it all out, even Richie'd had to admit that getting Ben to find Stan's parents had sounded like a good plan, but now it was getting later than late and nothing had happened. After breakfast, the nurses turned off the phones. As the day waged on, their morning rejuvenation began to dwindle, and now there seemed to be none left at all. So what then?

Richie'd tried to make a few of his own phone calls after Bill and Bev. Neither his mom nor his dad picked up. For the first time, Richie felt like he might just be able to push the words "I'm sorry" from his lips, and if his parents weren't going to listen, well, there were three people across the room who deserved to hear it too. Richie stayed put. 

The back of his brain tingled. Roaches, roaches, roaches. His brain was roach food. They were in there all right, fat and scaly and black and brown. A tin voice echoed deep in his bones. You're not a good person, it said. You're not a good person at all. No matter what you try, no matter what you do, you're rotten through and through. You've had nearly every privilege in life: you're a white, able-bodied man who was born into the comfortable upper-middle class with two parents who loved you until you forced them to stop. But it doesn't matter, does it? And you wanna know why, _ man? _ Because some brains just get roaches. And sometimes, you just gotta live with the roaches you have! 

The tears started to kick up again, but Richie pulled them back. He'd been falling into crying jags all day. Emotions too powerful for physical action – neck tensing choking sobs, half-screams, tearing hair, convulsing limbs were not enough. After lunch, Richie’d quarantined himself in the bathroom, his knees drawn to his chest, his teeth clenched tight around a wadded up towel, his body quivering. The crying was too loud to be muffled in spite of it. But it was no matter, Richie's brain was busy cannibalizing itself. After a few minutes or several hours, a nurse came in. Not a tech, though Richie was sure anyone of them would have loved to come and watch him cry. The nurse had been the one who’d calmed Eddie down on his first night. She stood and looked down at him. She offered him an Ativan. Or rather, she'd insisted. It’s okay to take it when you need it, she’d said. He told her to fuck off.

There were periods though, such as this one now, where he felt almost alright. His face was dirty from all the tears, and his neck ached from having tensed so hard, but there was a certain clarity.

He looked across the room where his friends sat without him. They were all together in this strange limbo; the edge of hell. And Richie had helped put them there. He couldn't think about that though. Couldn't think about how he had bought into Patrick's lies, how quickly it had happened, and with such ease. Couldn't think about how he had convinced Eddie and Bev that the lies were true. Couldn't think about how he had turned on Bill, and he could not think about how all the love had fallen from Eddie's eyes this morning. And yet, Richie could think of nothing else. 

The T.V. was on. Bill'd switched it to Entertainment Television and he was watching it intently, almost like he was waiting for something to happen. But it was all tabloidal celebrity crap. Kelly Clarkson claps back at haters. Good for her. 

The outside air shook with thunder. Bill flinched.

Richie wondered suddenly if Bill's parents loved him. Did they live in Derry? If they did, had they ever come to visit? Was Bill himself even from Derry? Richie realized he didn’t know. 

Richie didn’t know about anything, really. Bill had told them that Mike said that he knew Patrick killed the bird. Said he had proof. That’d been enough for Eddie and Bev to be sure. But could Richie just take Bill’s word? They had no way to know just what Bill and Mike had said to each other, or if Bill had even called Mike at all. 

Richie ached with uncertainty. Reality seemed like such a flimsy thing – something to be won. Whoever spoke loudest got to decide what was real. And if there was no room left for facts, then what was there? There were feelings. And what shit that was. Richie felt things so intensely they had a way of defining who he was. 

_ Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold. Richie gets sad; Richie gets bold. _

He'd tried to run from it, to bury himself in anything he could find, but now Richie saw himself raw and without an identity. He had spent so many nights in the ever-growing-rarer euthymia, staying awake and hating himself. Wondering why he was the way he was. Wondering why he couldn’t stop words from coming out of his mouth. 

He saw himself falling down a hill, rolling faster and faster. The bottom hadn't been in the Kenduskeag. The bottom hadn't been in bed with his dad's friend. The bottom hadn’t even been on the country roads going 100 miles per hour with his feet on the handlebars. No. It was right here, right now. It had long been getting bigger and closer, but he hadn't been able to stop, and now it smacked him to the floor. 

Feelings had brought him to ruin. Stan was Richie’s friend, so he hadn’t killed the bird. Dangerous. It might just be that Stan knew Richie better than anyone else. Stan saw everything Richie had ever wanted to hide. Stan saw everything crooked and wrong and imperfect. Stan saw the roaches. And yet, Stan must have seen some good in there too, because despite it all, he stood by Richie. Stan was the possibility that Richie could still be a good person. And was there anything better to cling to? Was there anything else at all?

It was time to get up.

Richie willed himself to his feet and walked over to where his friends sat. The T.V. fuzzed on in the background. Kylie Jenner’s baby turned three months old. Cute. Richie walked over to where his friends sat. 

Eddie looked up at him, his eyes wet with exhaustion, anxiety, stress. Hopefulness and hopelessness. Either or. Richie'd known him for eight days now. Eight. It was a weird word, a weirder concept. So small and large and looping. Somehow it felt longer, shorter. Everything it was, it also was not. There was merit to such strangeness, Richie supposed, though he couldn't find any. If Richie’s friendship with Stan was a paradox, then his relationship with Eddie was a hydrogen bomb. 

Here they were, two people who had found solace and excitement and sublime understanding in each other. But after this morning, what now? 

Were they cosmically meant to be? Two souls created by river waves and suckled on honey-wine. Sent into the world to find each other. To heal each other. Two beings so meant to be that they would find each other in every lifetime, who would make the Gods weep should they ever separate.

Or were they two men, barely out of boyhood, with their toes still submerged in that warm-watered youth? Fools with starry eyes and heads in the clouds. Neither of them knowing the fickleness of love. Little children who'd found each other and saw something they'd never seen before and held onto it for fear of a hard-nosed reality away from each other's arms.

No. It was something altogether different and unwritten. Neither of them was suited for such romantic love. Instead, they had been brought together by simple chance. Not rare or unique. It wasn't destiny that had brought their paths together. In fact, Richie was now quite soberly sure that there was no destiny at all. And somehow, the once fantastic nature of his manic conclusion that God and the universe and the water and the wind and himself were all the same didn't see very fantastic at all. Everything was coincidental, thus everything was divine. They weren't written in each other's bones and no godly force was bringing them together. It was just them, two people who had lives eight days earlier and who would continue to have lives should they never see each other again. 

But Richie didn't want that. 

"Are you done being a dick?" Eddie spoke in a thin voice.

"Yes." 

Eddie's expression softened. Richie sniffed. Simple.

Beverly made room for Richie on the couch. Richie sat between her and Eddie. Bill kept his eyes on the T.V. Already, Richie could feel stupid, senseless tears start to pull at him again. 

"What are we doing?" Richie said aloud. It felt like a question for Bill, though he hadn’t meant for it to be.

"W-w-we're waiting," Bill said. He kept his eyes fixed on the T.V. 

Eddie put his hand on Richie's, delicate and hesitant. 

"We can't keep waiting,” Richie said. “If something was going to happen, it already would have."

"He has a point," Bev whispered. Richie got the feeling that she wouldn't have been able to speak louder if she wanted. Her face flushed red, her brows knit, and her lips screwed in a grotesque will not to cry. No tears fell. Richie admired her for it. 

Suddenly an idea, wild and clear, came to him. 

"Bill?"

Bill kept his eyes on the T.V. Nicki Minaj went on a Twitter rant. Lovely.

"Bill."

Eddie squeezed his hand. 

"Bill, I've got to tell you something."

Bill looked at him. Eddie looked at him. Bev looked at him. It would probably be a good time to make his apologies, Richie supposed. Probably a very a good time.

"Bill, I've got to punch you in the face."

Eddie snatched his hand back.

"Are you being serious?" Eddie ran his hands over his face and a little, muffled wheeze escaped his throat. "Why are you being like this? What the hell goes through your mind before you speak? Do you even have any idea? Do you think at all? We've been over this, and Richie, if you don't get it now, I can't be with you. Bill wasn't leering at me. He wasn't leering at Bev. He isn't out to get you. He isn't out to get anyone. Today has been the hardest day of my life and I've had some rough days. We all have. But instead of you staying with us and trying to figure things out, you've just made it all worse. I know you're hurting, Richie. Ok? I can see what these swings are doing to you. But you won't let anyone help. First it was the meds and then it was Dr. Koontz, and now it's us. You have so much good in you. I swear to God, if I hadn't already seen it, I wouldn't believe it. But there is also something deeply wrong with you. I know your disorder is cruel, but dammit, Richie, that isn’t it. Right now, we can't afford for you to act the way you are acting. You were wrong about Bill. I was too, so was Bev. But the difference is that you just can't admit it. This is your last chance. If you respect us at all, if you respect  _ me  _ at all, swallow your pride. Please."

"Are you done?"

Eddie glared at him with red-eyed heartbreak and boiling fury. 

"Eddie, I'm sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry to you and to Bev and maybe Bill most of all. I am. I'm sorry for not being with you today. All of you. My brain… my brain's fucking fucked up. It's just filled with all these,"  _ roaches  _ "goddamn chemical imbalances. My emotional regulation is pretty much non-existent right now. I don't know why it makes me like this, I really don't. I don't want it to be this way. I don't want to be controlled by random fucking levels of serotonin and dopamine and whatever the fuck else crashing into me and shooting away. Koontz said the Lithium would bring me down from hypomania, and, uh, it sure fucking did that pretty well. I… it's hard for me to say these things. I've never been all that introspective. I was always scared of what I'd find within myself, even at my best. But, uh, now, now I've had no choice. You're right. There's something wrong with me, and it's not just the disorder. I don't know what it is,"  _ roaches!  _ "And I'm scared that there's no way to fix it. I'm scared that at the core, what's really wrong is just  _ me.  _ I like you so much, Eds. And I swear to God, when we get out of here, and we will get out of this fucking nightmare situation, I want to date you properly."

Richie started to cry again. They were good tears. Sensible tears. From guilt and shame and regret. Emotions processed and felt. And so strangely and quickly he was able to recover from them. Eddie put his hand on Richie's back.

"I'm sorry," Richie repeated. "I'm sorry to all of you. I was wrong and I'm sorry."

"There are so many treatments out there, Rich," Eddie whispered into his ear, sweet and private. "If the Lithium isn't working, you'll find another medication that will. And there's so many therapists out there who will listen to what you to say and they'll help you figure it all out. But you have to stay committed to getting better. If you get manic again, you have to fight through it. You just have to keep fighting. You get to fight now, don't you see?"

The roaches stopped their scurrying just then. Richie looked up at Eddie. Just keep fighting. It was as simple and beautiful as it was impossible. For the first time in his life, Richie felt like he was truly ready to say goodbye to the mania. Goodbye to the euphoria. Goodbye to the magic. Goodbye to the bit of his brain that could fill him up to the brim with happy chemicals better than any drug. Goodbye to the cosmic wonder that had ruined his life. 

But he couldn't. The revelation had come too late.  _ Once you've given up on treatment this time, your dad and I have decided to take you off our insurance.  _ Given up. There hadn't been room for the possibility that he wouldn't. And now his mom wouldn't pick up the phone. She kept her cellphone religiously charged, volume up, and never more than a few feet away. No, it was too late now. 

How much did an appointment with a psychiatrist cost without insurance? $100? More? What about therapy? $75? What about meds? Potential future hospitalizations? Lots and lots of money Richie didn't have. Hell, Richie didn't even know is his folks would let him stay at home.

Richie ran his thumb along Eddie’s hand. The skin was still pink from where he’d been scratching. 

"You're right," he whispered. 

"I'm sorry," Bev cut in, "are we all just going to ignore the fact that a few seconds ago Richie said he was going to punch Bill?"

"Right, well I've still got to do that."

"W-w-what–"

"Oh come on, Big Bill! Isn't it obvious?" It wasn't obvious. "Guys, we can't just sit around anymore. We just can't. Stan's been in there for almost twenty-four hours now. A whole fucking day in an empty white room by himself."

"We've d-done everything w-we can–"

"How many times have we all walked down that hall?"

"Richie–"

"There's one isolation room. One. So say another patient were to become volatile. Well, they'd have to free up the isolation room, wouldn't they?”

“So you’re going to try and get yourself put in isolation? I’m really glad you’ve found your confidence again after going a few hours without it, but it's a bad idea.”

“Well, what the fuck else is there to do? Come on! That’s our Stanley in there! Stan who has the most painfully analytical mind there is. What do you think he’s thinking right now? Honestly?" The room was quiet. "Well I have no fucking clue either, but I bet it’s some dark fucking shit. He has no way to know how long he’s been in there, no way to know we don’t think he killed the bird, and no way to know that any of us still fucking care about him at all. Stan tried to fucking kill himself a few weeks ago and now he’s locked up alone with his thoughts. 

“Come on, Bill. Let's go in front of the nurses' station. I won't hit you very hard."

“Y-you aren’t d-doing this, Richie.”

“It’s not your choice.”

“It’s my f-face.”

“Well, Bill, I’m sorry. It can’t be Bev because she’s a chick and it can’t be Eddie because I love him. I know your nose is already jelly, I mean who knew Stan would have such a mean uppercut? But I’ll try not to hit any of the squished bits–"

“N-no, Richie.”

“Fine. I'm just saying the better end of this bargain is being the one getting hit, but if any of you think you can handle being locked up in there, be my guest.” Richie took off his glasses. “Who wants to take a swing?”

“Y-you’re not hitting anyone and n-no one’s hitting you. And k-keep your voice d-down.”

Richie shoved his glasses back on his face and stood up. 

“Just so you know,” he whispered huskily, “if you're all right about the cameras and the whole fucking hospital knowing just what happened, then they aren't letting Stan out any time soon. They aren't being malicious, they aren't plotting – they're keeping him in there simply because they don't know what else to do. They're fucking clueless. And you know what? So are all of us.

“If any of you think you know what tomorrow looks like, you're sorely mistaken. We’ve got an incompetent hospital staff and a lunatic who's already shown he knows how to manipulate the system. 

“I don’t have much to lose at this point. I’m doing worse than I ever thought I could. I need to do this. It’s a good fucking plan.”

Bill stood up, face to face with Richie. “T-trust me when I say we n-need to just wait. Something’s g-going to happen. Soon."

"You can't just keep saying that! Nothing's happened. Nothing's  _ going  _ to happen–"

"It's time for snack." A tech came in between them. 

"W-what?"

"Yeah,  _ what?"  _ Richie echoed. "What the hell do you mean 'it's time for snack?'"

The tech gave a tired look to his wristwatch. Richie recognized him as Craig, who worked almost exclusively in the B Ward. Maybe the techs from the night before had been put on leave. Richie hoped they had. Craig's eyes were just as weary as theirs. "I mean that it's eight thirty. Snack time. I'm supposed to take you to the dining room."

Bill looked around at the rest of them, trying to get a read on the room. No one knew just quite how to look. "A-after everything that's h-happened in the last d-day, you've all just d-decided to brush it all under th-the rug and give us a f-fucking  _ snack?"  _

“What happened last night was disturbing, and we’ve spent today going over our safety measures.”

“What d-does that mean?”

“It means that everything has been taken care of that needs taking care of. Now you all get to have snack together. Lovely, isn’t it?”

Bill's face flushed deep red. Richie felt clammy. Maybe he'd been right. Maybe they'd all gotten each other paranoid and riled up. Maybe Stan  _ had  _ killed the bird and they'd all deluded each other rather than face that horrible possibility. Suddenly nothing felt certain. 

"Is B Ward going to be there?" Bev asked.

“If they want to."

"Then we aren't going.” Whatever unease had overcome Richie clearly hadn't touched Bev. The only thing left to believe in was each other. Richie had made his decision, and now he had to stick with it. 

"Beverly–" Craig started. 

"We aren't going!" Bev snapped. And then she was actually crying. Up until then, Richie'd felt certain that she could hold back her tears no matter what. But now… was it humbling? Or was it the last little bit of security floating away? If Beverly cries, we're all fucked.  That seemed to be the general feeling. Tears shed; game over.

"If Patrick's going to be there, we aren't going."

Eddie stood up and walked to Richie's side. He bit his lip.

The tech sat next to Bev, but didn't dare touch her. "Did Patrick do something to upset you?"

"You know," Bev said, a fat tear dripping of the soft flesh of her cheek. "You know and I know you know." 

Craig stood up. "You're going." 

Bev stared him down. "What if I refuse? What are you going to do, drug me?"

The camera in the corner of the room mocked them with its all-seeing, blind eye. 

Craig's face darkened. He grabbed Bev by the bicep and pulled her to her feet. She screamed. Craig let go and cursed under his breath. Bev fell back onto the couch. She froze in place as sobs came ripping from her chest. Her knees trembled, but her muscles were taut enough to hurt. She drew her hands over her face and bit the heel of her hand. 

A nurse sprinted over from the nurses' station. A nice nurse. The nurse who'd helped Eddie on the day he was admitted. 

"Is everything ok?" she asked. 

"He grabbed her arm," Eddie said. 

"I did no such thing," Craig said. 

"We all saw it!”

Beverly just sobbed and sobbed.

"Right," the nurse said. Her eyes gleamed with discomfort. She straightened her scrubs. "Can you stand up?"

Bev stood on quivering legs. Her arm was pink from where Craig had grabbed it. 

"Do you need ice for your arm, sweetie?" 

Bev's eyes widened. Another tear came. Two. Three. And then they stopped. Her face hadn't even turned pink. Richie watched as she lightly rubbed her eyelashes dry. She seemed hollow just then. As though something in her brain flickered off. She whispered something under her breath. Something that sounded a whole lot like  _ no thank you, Momma.  _ As calm as she tried to make herself, her whole body was shaking now. Her knees were locked tight together. 

The nurse frowned. “If it would really be too stressful, maybe Beverly could stay here with me.”

“How do you think it would reflect on us if everyone but her showed up?”

“I think psych care workers have done a lot worse and kept their jobs. Don’t you agree?”

Craig narrowed his eyes. “Fine. I’ll take these three then.” He turned to Beverly. "Don't you worry. We'll make sure you get all the meds you need tonight. It seems like you've got a lot to talk about in therapy, too."

Richie stared at Craig. He could do it. He could hit him. Hard. But then Eddie looked at him with eyes begging him not to. 

"It's a bad idea," Eddie whispered. 

A bad idea. Richie and Eddie and Bill followed Craig. Bev stayed behind. She’d started crying again by the time they turned around. She screamed something just as the door to A Ward closed.

 

* * *

 

 

They sat at the table by the window. It was their table. The table where Ben had christened them the Losers' Club on the only night all seven of them were together. But now, only three of them sat there. Eddie sat between Richie and Bill. The chair across from him was empty, a far cry from all the times they'd had to pull chairs from empty tables so they could all cram in together. None of it was the same. There was no laughing and no smiles, and now the very thought that there had been any in the first place seemed strange. Sharp rain pummelled against the window pane. 

They'd passed by the isolation room as they were herded to the dining room. Of course they had. There'd been muttering behind the door.  _ But oh! You know… I… I don’t think I can stand being in here for another minute. Not… I don’t… I… I…  _ Incoherent. 

And what should Eddie have done? What should any of them have done?  _ What was there to do? _ His hands itched. Things were fast crumbling as if they hadn’t been already. Eddie looked at Richie. Richie looked right back. 

Eddie wasn't sure he could handle it anymore. Any of it. His head rattled with unrest. But he had to be strong. And yet, somehow in the middle of all of it, Eddie felt more like a person than he ever had before. There was something powerful inside of him waiting to tip over. That's what it all came down to. Tipping points. 

They were going to get through it. All of them. Maybe it made him naive but still believed in perseverance. He still believed in the triumph of good over evil. He still believed in recovery. And fuck it, he still believed in Richie. But Eddie was scared. Bev's sobbing was stuck on a loop in his head. 

He needed someone to hold onto. Bill and Richie. One, two, three. 

Craig reached into the fridge and produced a bottle of Boost. He placed it in front of Bill along with a styrofoam cup. Bill stared at it.

"Drink it," Craig said. 

Bill opened the bottle but didn't take a sip. Craig turned away. 

"What's the plan, Bill?" Richie whispered.

"W-what do you m-mean?"

"We're following your fucking lead."

"We aren't d-doing anything. W-we're going to sit here and we're g-going to listen to whatever they have to tell us."

"And then what?"

"And then w-we go b-back to our ward and k-keep waiting."

"Bill," Eddie cut in with a soft, almost-nothing voice, "maybe that isn't such a good idea."

"It is. J-just wait."

"That's all you can say, isn't it?" Richie seethed.

Bill didn’t say anything. 

The door opened and B Ward was led in by another tech.

“J-j-just t-trust me. D-d-d-dummy up,” Bill whispered.

“I thought we weren't supposed to be in the same room anymore, Craig,” Patrick said. “I heard the made you move to Ward A and I'm really just awful sorry. You were all kinds of fun."

“Right,” Craig said. He turned to the other tech, “Ken, can I speak to you in the hall?”

“Hey fuckwads,” Richie called, “I’m pretty sure leaving us alone in the dining room is against the goddamn guidelines!”

Eddie nudged him in the ribs. Wait. Wait. Bill wanted to wait. And so they would just have to wait.

“You’re all grown men. We’ll just be a few minutes. There’s applesauce in the fridge. Try not to rip each other’s throats out.” Ken followed Craig out of the dining room. 

Henry sat at the corner table. He was alone now. Alone and raging. His muscles quivered and his hands were kept in tight fists.

Patrick sat down in the empty seat at the Losers’ table. 

"Oh no," he tsked. "What happened to your face, Bill?"

Bill kept his eyes trained on the cap on the table. Patrick took the bottle of Boost and poured it into the styrofoam cup. It filled the cup exactly to the brim.

"Ok. Nevermind your face. What happened to your  _ friends?  _ I mean I guess I know what they did with Stan–"

"Shut up," Eddie said.

"–but what happened to dear little Beverly? Did she remember what you did to her, Bill? Oh well. Roman hands, Russian fingers."

_ "Shut up." _

"You know, Eddie, you have a very nice face. Very childlike. Bill, doesn't Eddie remind you of someone?"

Bill kept quiet. 

"It's raining awful hard, isn't it? Do you ever remember it raining this hard before? Hmm? Not biting? Ok, then. 

“I like that you're wearing short sleeves. It’s really brave. You’re so brave. Eddie, Richie, isn’t Bill just the bravest? No? Well, he’s not so special.” Patrick pulled his leg onto his chair and rolled the cuff of his pant leg up. An ugly scar stretched across the meat of his calf, nearly as wide as it was long. “Potato peeler. Isn’t it neat? I told my mom my dad did it. And after what happened to my brother… well she was ready to believe it. I guess we all need someone to blame sometimes. 

“You know something about brothers, dontcha Bill? Bill? Billy?”

Bill stared at the floor. Patrick gestured to the styrofoam cup. So much as a shake of the table would be enough for it to spill over. Nobody moved.

“Crazy how full it is. It doesn’t look like it should be able to be that full, but alas, surface tension. It's neat, isn't it? All those molecules just clinging together… What were the chances that it’d fill up perfect like that? Hmm? Look at it. It’s bulging at the top. It’s like it just wants to overflow. Come on, Bill, it’s  _ aching  _ for it. Aching for release. But it won’t get any. It’ll stay just built up like that forever and ever and ever. Unless…” Patrick smacked the cup off the table. The shake splattered across the floor like sticky brown vomit. Bill didn’t so much as blink.

Patrick huffed. “Ok, Richie, how ‘bout you? I saw you flinch. You have anything you want to say? I know you like talking so much. Eddie? Wanna tell me to shut up again? Or are you kicking yourself for even saying it in the first place? I bet you are. You egged me on.”

Eddie grabbed Richie’s hand under the table. 

“Oh, how cute. You know, it’s funny, Eddie, yesterday I could have sworn your bracelet was on your right hand, and yet now, it’s somehow on your left. What do you think it means, Bill? I think it means they’re fucking.”

“We’re not–“

“Oh no, Eddie! You couldn’t help yourself, could you? You are the weakest link! Now I’ll never stop talking! I don’t think I can now that I know how it gets to you. Richie, does it make you mad that your boy toy doesn’t want people to know you’re together? I don’t blame him. I’d be ashamed to. Don’t worry about the bracelet, Eds. I won’t tell.” Patrick smiled and held up his arm. “I have thin wrists too, but at least I’m smart enough to remember what wrist to put it back on.

“So let’s talk diagnoses! Eddie, can we start with you? You make it so easy. You’re no fun at all. Anxiety and lots of it. Probably all situational too, don’t you think? Boring.

“Richie, you stupid fuck, you say yours every goddamn day. Bipolar, like it wasn’t obvious.”

“Two,” Richie said under his breath. 

“Two?”

“I have bipolar disorder type two.”

“Gosh. You wouldn’t say anything to defend Eddie, but when it comes to yourself, you just can’t keep quiet. And you know what makes me think? Can you guess? It makes me think that you’re scared you might be bipolar one. Yep. I think you’ve had a true manic episode before. Not that hypo bullshit. Did it get so bad you start to see things? Hear things? What about delusions?”

Richie twitched. Patrick smiled.

“Want to talk about it, Richie? I bet you’ve never told anyone before. Bet you wouldn’t dare. I mean why else would you stop ignoring me in order to speak up? Bipolar one with psychotic features, what an upgrade to your diagnosis that would be. What were the delusions about?”

Eddie's grip on Richie's hand loosened like a reflex. Richie looked at him, heartbreak in his eyes. Richie made to take his hand back, but Eddie grabbed him by the pinkie finger and held on tight. 

“You don’t have to answer, you could let Eddie guess. Let it scare the shit out of him. I mean he’s basically using you, anyway. You’re his baby blanket. Or at least you were supposed to be. Just something he could hold onto while he sucks his thumb and pretends he isn’t here.”

Patrick let out a low whistle. “Gosh, what a boring day it’s been! Has it been boring for all of you, too? Is being scared boring? I’m asking because I genuinely want to know.

“You think Stanny’s talking to the walls yet? I bet he is. Maybe the walls are even talking back by now. If not now, then I’m sure they will be soon. What a shame. What a shame. What a shame! But then again, maybe it’s better that he’s in there. Maybe it’s safer than being out here.

“I mean golly, do you think they have any clue what they’re doing at all?” There went the tsking again. “Isn’t it fun? I mean anything could happen now. Anything at all. I’ve always thrived in chaos. But it’s fun! Guessing who knows what, guessing what you yourself know… do you think anyone has the complete picture? Maybe even I don’t have it.

“But I guess I know what you know, or what you think you know. You’re all very bad at hiding it. It wasn’t planned, though. Stan, I mean. Just a happy coincidence. Sometimes everything just lines up perfectly and it’s really just lovely. Just lovely. So sad for Stan, though. You know he likes you, Bill. And you know what I mean by like, right? I bet he has wet dreams about you holding his hand and giving him love letters and kissing his scars like the after-school special he so wants his life to be.”

Bill’s head snapped up.

“Oh! There you are! Is that what does it? Really? You didn’t know he loves you, did you? It was right there, Bill.  He loves you and he hates that he loves you. I mean he’s all Mr. Straight and Narrow so I guess swooning over his roommate in the psych ward doesn’t bode well for his personal philosophy. But he just couldn’t help it. Aw. He wanted to protect you. He wanted to stop all of this, what a sweet kid. It’s just such a bummer that I couldn’t be there to see it when it happened. It was obviously quite a show. I mean God almighty! That’s what happened to your nose, isn’t it? He hit you. He loved you and you made him hurt you. The saddest part is he still probably loves you. Shucks. 

“Now he’s in isolation and even I don’t know what’s going to happen to him. They could call the police. That’s probably what they were going to do, I bet. But they would share partial liability, wouldn’t they? The police would want to see the tapes and the tapes are just so incriminating for so many people… Did you hear? I'm a victim too. Craig and I had a little quid pro quo. I think I'll sue when I get out of here. 

“You could sue too, Bill. You could sue for lots and lots and lots of money. You could shut the whole hospital down. I think that’s why they were too scared to do anything all of today. Because of you. It’s really your fault that everything’s happened the way it has. Are you in there Bill? Billy? Mr. Denbrough? They know by now, right?”

Bill set his eyes back on the floor. Patrick grinned.

“Richie, Eddie, meet William Denbrough, prodigious novelist and screenwriter extraordinaire. He's a big Hollywood hotshot who somehow ended up here with forearms that look like he took a cheese grater to them. This man has had his dick inside Audra Phillips and now look where he is. He's the invisible famous. Isn't that neat? Everyone knows his name and no one knows his face. Not like he's recognizable anymore anyway."

Eddie couldn't help himself. He looked at Bill. Bill looked rough. His eyes were blank. Hollow. Empty. In fact, it looked like Bill wasn't there at all. 

"What could make someone like him come here? I know but I'm not telling."

A few seconds passed. Thick, tight, awful seconds that felt a hell of a lot more like minutes. Hours. Bad things were happening and there was no way to stop any of them. Eddie looked at the mess on the floor. Surface tension. Bulging at the top. Waiting to overflow. Built up forever and ever unless–

“Oh, Bill… you’re really not going to talk to me, are you? Come on, don’t you want to know how I knew you were here? Because I did know. I mean there are lots of coincidences in this world, but you and I sitting here together is not one of them. 

"Are we going to have to talk about Georgie? We are, aren't we? Richie, Eddie, you both grew up in Derry, didn't you? Then you probably know already. You were just babies when it happened. I never liked babies. They always disturb things. 

"Bill, don't you have anything to say?" Patrick rested his chin on the heel of his hand. He smiled. "This is your last chance. You know, it's going to get real fun real soon. You’re really going to make me describe it? You know, Georgie wasn't quiet. He wasn't quiet at all. But you're quiet. You won't talk. Not even for Georgie."  _ Tsk, tsk, tsk.  _ The sound made Eddie's skin erupt in goosebumps. It was the strange tickle a fly makes when it gets too close to your ear. 

“Doesn’t it make you just so scared that at any moment I could pick up the phone and call anyone I like and tell them that you’re here. I heard they turned off the phones in on your side. Shame. Ours are still on. I could ruin your whole life, Bill. All I have to do is make a few calls."

"You d-d-don't have to do that." 

"And he speaks." Patrick smiled.

So did Bill. 

 

All at once, things started to happen.

Craig and Ken returned to the dining room. 

As soon as he knew they were looking, Richie grabbed Patrick by the shirt collar and knocked out three of his teeth. And then he hit him again. And again. And again. 

Seven stories down, Mike Hanlon's truck pulled up next to Ben Hanscom's car which was parked next to Donald Uris' sedan which was in a lot that was quickly filling up with all sorts of seedy people with big cameras and high hopes of getting a picture of William Denbrough going crazy. They were going to get exactly what they wanted. Sometimes when bad things happen, they have a funny way of not being able to stop. 

The light on the cameras blinked.


End file.
